Jonathon told Storm his plan to end their marriage.

"Why wait?" she asked. "Just push the button and finish it."

He shook his head. "We're not like them."

"Them" referred to the kids of the zero-boomer generation, the romantic elite of the late 2040s, the founders of the brave new world of love and lust evolving in rapid motion around Jon and Storm, a prehistoric couple who once considered a ten-year commitment to be sacrilege.

Most of their knowledge of modern dating came from their son as they followed—hopelessly—the lightning pace at which he found and discarded love.

Most disturbing to Jon's conservative persuasion was the updated ranking system; a five-star scale featuring cutthroat reviews and a complete breakdown of every aspect of a person's personality; their sense of humor, perceived IQ, sexual performance, commitment potential, recommended modifications, and more.

(Jon was ashamed of the two reviews he had accumulated during his sanctioned affairs. One wrote, "Handsome. Unmodified. Prudish. If you're a girl with daddy issues, this is your man!" The second simply said, "Weak in bed. Refuses to party." The reviews would follow him for the rest of his life.)

Outside the digital realm, there were even more methods and hacks to modern romance: mood tattoos, genital enhancement, extreme body augmentation, flawless birth control, lie-detector scramblers, lie-detector scrambler scramblers, PEC meet-ups, and a dark rainbow of new shades including Snap Dragon, Disco Lemonade, China White, Four Leaf Clover, Poppy Petal, and on and on and on...

Despite the hoopla, week-long commitments, and baboonish genitalia, the biological basis for these rituals was long gone. Sex had finally detached itself completely from propagation. In 2049, the simple morality of George and Susan wasn't just out of fashion, it was impossible.

Jon and Storm stayed clear of the mayhem. They agreed to make their relationship work until the end of their contract, not as a moralistic obligation, but out of genuine respect for one another. How else could they distinguish themselves from the rest?

To their surprise, the countdown spurred the best chapter of their relationship. For three years, the cuddles were warm, the banter was sincere, and their eyes remained unclouded.

2051 / Year 38

August

Today is the day...

The thought woke Hannah at 5:30 AM and followed her through her morning routine.

Today is the day...

Her tiny house had become a catalyst for "one step at a time," smoothing her transition from her past life (culminating with her father's hibernation) to a path of sobriety, celibacy, and peace.

Today is the day Jon's commitment ends.

Never a Red since leaving Masdar; never a Blue, Purple or Yellow. The only shade Hannah ever touched was Alabaster, and only for moments like these.

She sat cross-legged in the soft center of her living room floor, inhaled a solitary burst of White, then waited for her eyes to close.

Anxiety vanished the moment her eyelashes touched. Her heart slowed, not due to a chemical side effect, but because she was in control.

She and Jon rarely communicated in the three years since their banquet hall conversation. Thankfully, she had spent her celibacy re-learning the value of patience. If he needed to wait a few days before calling, it wouldn't be the end of the world. If he had forgotten about her completely, she would learn to accept that too.

Aimee interrupted her meditation. ["Hey babe. I know you're nervous today, but you need to stop biting your lip."]

She stopped. ["You know me too well."]

["Your favorite little lady has requested your presence for another playdate. If you need to get your mind off things, feel free to stop by."]

She smiled. ["Tell her I would love a playdate as soon as possible."]

["Your ladies are here when you need us. Keep us updated."]

["You'll be the first I tell."]

Hannah finished her meditation, then stood, stretched, and meandered to her studio in the second bedroom. Her art supplies were the only household objects that didn't organize themselves, so she rolled the brushes in the satchel, scraped off crusted paint, and rearranged the pile of finished canvases.

["Incoming message from Storm Dillane."]

Hannah fell to her chair. She pressed her thumbs against her eyes, forced herself to relax, then—tentatively—opened the message.

Hannah, we've never met, but I've felt you beside me for years.

I felt you watching me on my first date with Jon. I felt you lying between us every time we crawled into bed. I've sensed your ghost in our family photos. I've discovered you hiding in the lonely recesses of my husband's eyes.

Call me a schoolgirl, but part of me still longs for 'til death do us part.' Maybe it's the time we were born into. Maybe we're a generation defined by our attachment to soulmates and eternal love. Whatever the reason, the last few weeks have been both joyful and heartbreaking.

I have nothing but hope for your future with Jon. He's a good, good man and it's time for us to move on.

When you see him tonight... tell him it was a fantastic first lifetime.

* * *

It had been three years since Jon saw Hannah in the flesh. Letting go of her trembling body in the aftermath of her father's hibernation was the most difficult experience of his life.

Now—according to his GPS—she was pacing thirty feet away behind the purple door of Aimee's old house.

Stay casual, he told himself as he stepped to the patio. Don't stare. Don't touch. Don't be awkward.

["I'm here,"] he thought, then sent the message to Hannah.

She opened the door and grinned. "Hey there."

Begging with her hair (the same pixie cut in auburn instead of blue) Jon's gaze moved along the woman and her violet glow, skipping along freckles like hopscotch, sliding down the arc of her ivory neck, bypassing the flat moles behind straps of a cotton tank; that familiar torso; those wicked hips. His eyes finally reached the black criss-cross laces that bound her ankles to her shoes before drifting to a crack in the patio. "Hey," he replied.

Hannah smiled and performed a strange half-curtsey. She's nervous too.

"It's finished," he said.

"I know."

"I tried to talk her out of sending the letter..." He rubbed his clammy palms on the back of his jeans.

"Come inside?" The words barely broke from her lips before her facade crumbled and Jon found himself engulfed in her arms. The girl on tiptoes; bodies together; her cheek pressed the soft part of his neck. Releasing the embrace, she cleared her throat, stood tall, and said it again. "Come inside?"

Hannah led him on the official tour of the kitchen, bathroom, and both bedrooms, but Jon paid attention only to the notes of her voice.

"What do you think?" she asked when the tour concluded in the living room.

He ran his hand along a vertical beam. "It's cute!"

"But?"

"But you're living like me."

"It's modest," she said, sitting on couch. "I need modest right now."

The stilted conversation choked every sound from the room as Jon tried to excavate ancient thoughts buried and guarded like the tomb of an Egyptian prince. "Hannah—"

"Not yet," she said. "Tell me something happy. Tell me about your job."

His mind jumped from relationships to work. "Well, I've been living my dream for the last six months."

She beamed. ["Authentic delight!"] said the text beside her face. "You have no idea how happy I was to see the word 'architect' in your profile."

"Your dad really came through for me."

"You've been learning a lot?"

"Learning?" He scoffed. "You can't imagine the shit I know."

"I'm bombarded every day with ads for IDPs, but your the only person I know who has them."

"A perk of the job, I guess. They only gave me the International Building Codes, so when it comes to anything outside of architecture, I'm just as clueless as before."

"Show me."

"What do you want to know?"

"What material are the LE towers made from?"

"Well..." His cheeks flushed. "The Chicagoland tower is built on a foundation of graphene and self-repairing concrete. Both materials are structured polymer composites which are waterproof, bulletproof, and quake-proof. The transparent facade—made from layers of rubber and glass polymer—was printed onsite to ensure structural integrity at the molecular level. The internal walls, accents, and supports are made from a variety of super-porous materials with extreme strength-to-density ratios which makes them—"

Hannah's bewilderment cut him off.

"Pretty exciting, eh?"

"Do you have to activate it somehow?"

"The information is just... there. It feels like I memorized it from a textbook."

"Can you feel it working?"

"Nope. But you can." He took her hand and pressed it against his forehead.

"You have a fever!"

"The T4 prevents brain damage from the heat."

"And your memory?"

"I have the storage capacity for twelve lifetimes."

Hannah's aura dimmed. She was probably thinking about her dad. "When do you start building skyscrapers?" she asked.

"PEC Corp has spent the last four years buying land in London, Shanghai, Manilla... and a dozen other major cities. We break ground in three locations next year, and one of them is my project in Dubai. Granted, there will be some artificial assistance in the design process—"

"Still so modest."

"I thought you liked modest?"

"I'm so proud of you. Dubai is huge."

He grinned. "The building is huge too. It can fit eight thousand people sitting up, or six thousand laying down."

"Do I get to visit you in Dubai?"

"I missed you, Hannah."

She blinked. "Do I get to visit you in—"

"I missed you," he said again.

A bubble appeared beside her disjointed smile. ["Nervous anticipation."]

"I feel like I've been in limbo for decades," he said, "and I'm finally crawling out. There's so much to say. So many questions. So many apologies—"

"Apologies?"

"For ignoring your call. For not realizing your pain. For all the stupid, naive things I said when you were silently hurting."

Hannah leaned into Jon, so close that he could feel the vibrations of her words against his stubble. "That naiveté?" she said. "That's why I loved you."

"My brother—"

"—is gone."

He exhaled through his nose. "There's so much to discuss..."

"You keep saying that."

"We need to take it slow."

The breath on his cheek fell away as Hannah disengaged.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You're right." ["Dubious motivation."] "We both have a lot of baggage."

"Maybe we could go on a few dates before jumping into things."

"Today must have been hard on you."

"It was... but that doesn't mean..." He stopped.

"I understand."

Jon pressed his palm against Hannah's cheek. His fingers brushed the tips of her hair. "Does next Wednesday work for you?"

The evening concluded on the patio with a brief exchange about the structural integrity of the overhead canopy, followed by a delicate hug, modest kiss, and another promise of future dates.

Jon shuffled to his land car. ["Nearest hotel?"] he thought, and the vehicle set its course.

He waved goodbye to the woman in the purple door, then watched her disappear as the car accelerated toward the city.

One day at a time, he told himself. One day a time.

* * *

If Hannah was going to move on with her life, she needed to censor the bad thoughts before they dragged her again into the lightless void.

She stood on the porch until Jon's land car turned the corner. She stepped inside, poured a glass of soylant, and called Aimee.

Her friend's face appeared in her lens. Before they could exchange hellos, the excited and oddly-articulate voice of a toddler exploded in Hannah's ear. "Hannah! Hannah! Hannah!"

"Hiya, Princess!" she said. "What are you doin' up so late?"

"Talking non-stop," Aimee said.

"It's only eight o'clock!" said the tiny voice. "I'm almost three years old so I can stay up 'til eight-thirty. When I'm six years old I can stay up 'til nine."

Hannah smiled. "You're gonna be six before I know it, aren't you?"

"Prolly. Did JonJon call?"

"When did we start calling him JonJon?"

"Right now!"

Hannah laughed. "JonJon didn't call... he stopped by."

"Did he say he loooves you?"

"That's a conversation for adults, kiddo."

"I'm almost three! Now come see me."

"Soon, baby." Hannah watched her friend struggle with the pajama-clad blur of little girl.

"Alright, stinker!" Aimee shouted. "Time to get ready for bed. And brush your teeth!"

"En Español, por favor?" said Princess.

"Cepíllense los dientes, ahora!" Aimee rolled her eyes and returned to Hannah. "Can you tell me why my daughter is testing my Spanish?"

"That girl is a whitehole... an endless supply of energy blasting in every direction."

"Yes she is." Aimee's voice deepened. "Now tell me everything."

"About what?"

"Don't play dumb. Give me details." Aimee scrunched her face. "Oh God, it was bad..."

"It wasn't bad."

"Don't lie. It says you're 'mildly disappointed.'"

"We decided to take it slow."

Aimee stuck out her lower lip. "That's not too bad."

"He's been with Storm for thirty years. Their commitment just ended. He's got a lot to process."

"That's understandable..." ["Disingenuous undertones."] "Are you going to see each other again?"

"We're getting dinner Wednesday—"

A knock at the door cut her off.

"What was that?" Aimee asked.

Hannah turned on the patio security feed. Jon was standing at the door. "I'll... I'll call you back, chica."

"Wait—!"

"Love you!" She ended the call and performed a mental rundown of her makeup and attire.

Another knock.

She breathed in, walked through the kitchen, opened the door—

Jon seized her by the waist, twisted his fingers through the waistband of her skirt, and pulled himself inside with a torrent of carnal kisses.

* * *

Delicious flesh; questions quelled; stumbling backward through the kitchen and following the masculine hand on the small of her back, Hannah dimmed the living room lights to a passionate smolder and softened the carpet's plush.

Amid the erotic fray and rugged texture of unnecessary jeans, Hannah found the Jade breather planted in the end table drawer. She offered it to Jon, breaking the moment long enough for him to shake his head and say between kisses, "I don't need it."

Standing, the couple was sixty years olds. Laying down, they were twenty-three.

Shirts off—he's more muscular than I remember—lightly defined abs and no artificial mods. They sunk into the carpet with Jon on top and Hannah offered the canister again. "Have you ever?" she asked.

"Never."

"Try?"

His breath heaved tenderly in the valley of her breasts. "And you?"

"I need it." She curled her fingers through his hair.

"Always?"

"Mmm."

His words traveled down her midriff like a skipping stone on a placid lake. "Let's compromise.... I'll take... the Green... if you... don't."

She quivered as his final kiss landed—through her skirt—an inch above her clit. She nodded reluctantly, then gave up the breather.

Jon toyed with the device, inspected it, then held it to his lips. He closed his eyes and squeezed.

Within seconds, it had him. Within seconds, nothing mattered but the woman. His need for conversation—work, commitment, the future, the past—diminished as the moment swelled, not just between his legs—not just through his organs and extremities—but between his body and hers, the merging of flesh like two liquid metals into a single, passionate heap of molten skin; JonandHannah, every nerve contracted, hyper-sensitive, wanting, aching, touched, and satisfied.

Hannah felt awake without the breather, conscious during sex for the first time in years, burying her face in her skirt that had become her pillow. Her shoes, lovingly unlaced; Jon sucking the leather imprints and kissing a thousand invisible scars. Her heart thumped against her eyelids, a detail usually lost in the unrelenting ecstasy of Green.

Ink on his left arm grew darker from shoulder to wrist; an entire lifetime without me, she thought, then touched the symbols one at a time. (Just below the elbow, Hannah's finger brushed the headstone engraved "GDN." In a moment of semi-lucidity, she panicked, mind racing to the night that changed her life—Gavin Nightly inside her—and for a split second she thought it was his tongue against her lips. Then she relaxed, remembered Jon, and pushed away the fear.)

With Jade, Jon shared Hannah's pleasure. Every feminine moan reverberated beneath his own skin, coaxing him to touch again, to press harder, to tongue deeper, spurring another scream and another shudder in an endless cycle of reciprocating bliss. He finally took his place between her legs, squeezed her hips to keep from falling into those infinite grey eyes; pressing gently at first, opening, exploring, then thrusting to the rhythm of her moans, some audible, some translated into unintelligible pulses in his brain: ["xcfoaoheaerqeriuy!"]

The orgasm—as Jon previously understood it—was only the beginning of drug-induced lust. When he was certain he couldn't handle anymore, the euphoria refused to subside and pushed him deeper into his lover's undulating skin.

Hannah grappled his back. Eyes closed, mouth forced into an o, she took hold and pulled him deeper, riding the sensation until it tingled from head to toe; shockwaves of natural pleasure, her first sober climax with a real-life partner.

She could have stopped, but the orgasm was no longer her endgame. At the peaks of intensity, she obliged his every whim. In the lulls, she nestled into his loving body, caressed the back of his neck, and silently thanked him for becoming her light.

* * *

Hannah clung to the branches of Jon's arms and drew circles on his chest.

"How'd you deal with your dad's hibernation?" he asked.

"I was mad," she said. "I thought he was trying to take me down with him. I almost slipped after you dropped me off that night."

"Slipped?"

"Crimson."

"Ah."

"Months later I realized he left me the only way I would let him. I would've gotten worse if it wasn't for Aim and Princess... and you."

"You pulled yourself together."

"Sometimes I wish I could wake him up." Her fingers stopped their circles and climbed the ladder of Jon's ribs. "Why did you come back?"

"An itch."

"An itch made you want to ravage me on the floor?"

"The first time I felt the itch, it made me not want to ravage you."

"The night I came home from college..."

"We were at my dad's. We were about to have sex. But I felt this—"

"Itch?"

"—in the back of my mind telling me you needed space... even if you didn't realize it."

"And you felt it again tonight?"

"As I was driving away."

Her fingers reached his jawline and stopped. "It's like you have a sixth sense that tells you how to respond to me, even if you don't know how I'm really feeling."

"I like that," Jon said.

"Yeah," she said. "Me too."

* * *

A month after his separation, Jon knelt before Hannah and declared, "I'm not going to marry you."

Her eyes fluttered and as the violet drained from her aura. "I—" she stammered. "I guess—"

"Marriage is dishonest, Hannah. It's small. It betrays who we are and stifles true love." He pulled a velvet box from his pocket, opened it, and let the modest diamond quell Hannah's confusion. "I meant to give you this in 2014—"

"Jon..." she started, but her purple halo smothered her words.

"I promise to respect you," he continued, twisting the band on her finger. "I promise to protect you. I promise to let you be whoever you want to be. The world is going to change, sweetheart, and we're going to change with it... but no matter what happens, I will always love you."

Hannah's chest stuttered with a rapid series of breaths. "I won't make a promise I can't keep," she vowed, thumbing her new ring. "But I'll return your promise of eternal love. We'll be lovers for now. We'll be friends for as long as we can bare it. But you will always be a part of me, Jonathon, and I will always treasure the memories we make."

That evening, the couple partook in a living room ceremony with their lenses as witnesses, holographic floral arrangements as decorations, and chocolate soylant as cake. At the end of the night, Jon revealed his plan for a last-minute honeymoon in Dubai. "We'll have a week to relax before I start work," he said.

Despite the silly ceremony and lack of an official commitment, Hannah felt closer to Jon than she had ever felt before.