Subject:  incompatibility
Date:  1999/02/09

Nightboy and daygirl have thirty minutes or so together every
day, half at dusk and half at dawn.  They make love and whisper
together until one gets up and one tucks in.  He writes her
love poems and leaves them on the table for her to read while
he's snoring gently in the bedroom;  she bakes him brownies
which he eats at 2 a.m. in front of the computer, the soft
light from the monitor playing across her sleeping face.

Airboy and watergirl trail their hands across the interface
together, him diving, her rising.  He drops presents down
at the end of a rope, a fishing line baited with jewels instead
of worms.  She spells out messages for him in seashells in shallow
water.  They kissed each other once:  it sent him to his hospital
(near-drowning) and her to her clinic (embolism), but they
both feel it was worth it.                                  

Matterboy and antimattergirl dance cautiously, as close as
they dare.  They send each other coded messages in bursts of
particles, I LOVE YOU in morse spinning past nearby galaxies.
They dream about making love, about kissing, about just touching
their fingertips together.  They know their first kiss will be
their last kiss will be their only kiss, but it's only a matter
of time before desire gets the better of them, and astronomers
see a new supernova near Orion flare briefly and go out.

I.
opposites attract / he's a boy and I'm a girl / yep, that's opposite