"What are you doing?!" demands the woman, as if to say, "I've caught you in the act!" Implying that in a room full of fleshy, socially lubricated bodies, I should be talking to a "real person", not an image on a screen.
I explain the situation to my inquisitor: "We both have cystic fibrosis."
"I'm so sorry," she says, feeling guilty. "It must be so hard that can never be in the same space, that you can't touch."
"Thank you," I say, and return to my date, to the country where I belong.
I know we can never touch. Still, we huddle close to our computer monitors. She smiles. I blush. Our future burns and crackles; this moment drags heavily along the floor.