They sat along the sidewalk tables of a cafe on the warm coast of France. It was the beginning of summer. Two young lovers, who, just the night before, met for the first time. They had known each other for centuries. Upon their first kiss, they had been together since the beginnings of time.
They ate steamed mussels and drank sweet tasting drinks. Told each other stories and spoke of silly things. Unspoken proclamations were carried on their gazes. When they looked at each other, their eyes wouldn't flinch. Her's moved from side to side, like reading a book. Reading him. His would lock on her's, unblinking. He was looking into her soul.
They walked and talked. Drank and kissed. Every moment spread into eternity. It was a perfect day.
Ask him about it, and he'll give a wry smile. He only pulls out that memory on certain days, inspecting it like an artifact from a forgotten time. That day can never be repeated. Perfect days aren't meant to be. There are only to be others. Better ones. That is the way of things.
He inspects that memory intensely on certain days, when the resonance is most clear. It makes him smile. Whether it's a bitter or sweet recollection is his secret. Maybe it's both. That's not for anyone else to say. He thinks back to that perfect day, seeing it clearly. Mental photographs in the scrapbook of his skull.