We retell the story of how we met.
We retell the story of how we met, until it is a story, until it is the story of all the things we did not do, the story of what would have changed the story, until it is the myth of it; Myth: the impossible story that is always true. If you had —, If I hadn't —, or If we both —, we might have —. If I hadn't been —, If you weren't — either, we wouldn't —. And If is the only myth, since, here we are. The story is how its counterfactual versions combined to eliminate themselves. I still hear in my head the incantatory babble of a stranger on the pier: This. Is the way. It's supposed. To be. This is the way it's supposed to be. We tell the story again, until it becomes that impossible story, heartbreaking for how it will never happen again, for how it is (process, elimination) happening all the time.