The string stretches across my lap, one end hanging by my thigh, the other rested on my calf. Finite. A beginning to an end, so blatantly clear. Sometimes, I can almost see the finiteness of us, how it began, and how it would end. How I wish nothing would ever end, how I let everything trail on beyond its time. Someone once gave the advice of marrying the one that you cannot imagine living without. Another source advised marrying the one who gives you that “airport feeling” — that feeling you get when you see someone from the airport for the first time. I think about the drop in my stomach when you arrive, and wonder if we could ever be more than all of the finites in our lives. I wonder if the clock will tick for us, eventually coming full circle. I wonder, I imagine, I hope, that you, this, we, can be infinite.