Today I exchanged a couple of electronic-mail messages with Anita, whom I will meet in Ljubljana in exactly one week. She will drive there from Zagreb, and I will fly from London. We will have a bit less than two days to ourselves, but they will be entirely to ourselves. It is likely we will not leave our hotel room until the time comes to part again. It is quite likely we will not leave our bed, either. I started my last message by writing about the difficulties of imagining our encounter in yet another city, yet another country, or gauging the amount of time that still separated us. Living so far apart, Anita and I on occasion write about the mysteries of time and space. Everything will suddenly change only when we finally see each other, touch each other, smell each other, taste of each other. Talk will grind to a halt, words will become superfluous, even painful. Then I turned to the fact that our messages had been paling, stiffening since the moment we had agreed to meet in Slovenia. This was nearly a month ago, in late September, if I remember correctly. As I proceeded with these reflections, I wrote more and more hesitantly, haltingly. Ever since our decision, I continued, our writing has felt ever less open, free and the right words have been ever more difficult to find. Our messages have become a bit dry, wooden. But then I added that the magic moment, when the world will melt away and we will melt into each other, is ever more palpable, as well. I paused. My writing became slower and slower as I was working my way to the end of the message. “Even as I write,” I wrote languidly, “I am beginning to merge with you, I am starting to feel your skin, your flesh, I am gradually becoming one with you.” Indeed, I was beginning to levitate, float, drift. “God,” I closed my message, “I love you so!!!” There was nothing else I could possibly say. And I let the message go.