With the one parachute left we had agreed to decide our fate upon the flip of the coin. When I flipped the coin and won, I was startled to find that the co-pilot and the parachute were gone.
I had hung over the edge of the cliff. Now, I hang onto the memory of my rescuer twisting, flailing, falling in my place.
Our potential, when plotted on a graph, yields a pair of parallel lines, beautiful and statuesque, yet bittersweet in their fate, destined to touch but not once in all of eternity. If there is even the slightest hope that we shall one day be together, one of us must bend.