Dear Mr. Munich,

Aside from the fact that you were clad in one of those cushy, velvet sweaters I liked, you were a prime example of a chance that I overlooked. Smoke billowed from your mouth as you laughed and turned to face me. “Prost,” as we clinked glasses. “Prost.” before you turned away.

What could I have said, seeing as how we were seated inches from each other, and the words could have sealed it. “Hello,” as I could have tapped your shoulder. “Wie heißen Sie? (what is your name?)” was what I should have said. But again, almost is never enough.

Could those words have began a story of how we met? After all, distance does not have to be reached by transport, but only by pushing yourself from where you are. Only in this case, the words could have done enough, so much in fact — that I didn’t have to be afraid, that I could have known you and the rest of it falls into place right after.

But again, there is no hoping in the almost. It is after all, a bit to where it’s right, but only a bit. And a bit may be just a bit more, but again, it’s just a bit and therefore not yet.

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