I've met the love of my life. Well, he doesn't know yet. Nor have I actually met him. I don't know his name, for example. Or anything about him. How do I know him? Well, let's just say he's a certain first violinist in a string quartet that plays on Calle Tetuan. He's the man with the melody. When I drop a Euro into the velvet lined case, he looks at me and nods. Wait! No laughter! This is for real. I already imagine our time together. We'll hold hands over the dinner table and gaze into one another's eyes. He will open his mouth to speak, but I'll put a finger to his lips. "shh," I'll say, gesturing to his violin, which will be sitting handily by the silverware, glinting seductively in the candlelight. "Don't speak, just play." And our children will be musical geniuses. At the age of 90, we'll sit in our rocking chairs, listening to Mozart and thinking back on younger days. I would introduce myself to him, but then I'd have to hear his voice. And that would just ruin everything.