I will meet you again in the future. It will be 100 years from now. We will be evolved. We will be larger. We will be gentle with each other. When I try to touch your hand, my hand will feel like water. Your hand will feel like a fish. We will be evolved in different directions. We will be so gentle and evolved we won’t even be able to lift our glasses to our mouths. We will just sit in a bar, looking at the glasses, and being incredibly gentle with each other. You will gently slap my face. I will gently say something cruel. We will gently torture each other, not saying any of the things we’ve been thinking for the last 100 years.
We will not say, ‘I’ve missed you,’ or, ‘You look good,’ or, ‘I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.’
We will be too futuristic to say those things.
There will be mobile phones made of water and seeds, 1 millimetre in diameter.
There will be children that look like shrivelled dogs.
Every thing ever will have a slot to put money in, and when you put money in the slot the thing will vibrate.
There will be tinfoil, inflatable shoes, and holographic statues of the cast of Friends.
Everything will be okay.
The sun will be burnt out – it will be like a black floating acorn – and it will be dark in the bar, and I won’t be able to see if you are crying.