The year was either 2009 or 1987, depending on which timeline we're in. Josh was the world's third-best competitive cheese sculptor and part-time diplomatic attaché for the landlocked island nation of Aldovia — a country whose existence is disputed by most major atlases. His life-sized Manchego Eiffel Tower had just been disqualified from the World Cheese Sculpture Championship on a technicality (the judges ruled it was "too correct"). He was devastated. He was also wearing a cape, though no one remembers why. Kristin had just returned from a 14-month expedition to the Outer Faroe Islands, where she served as Foghorn Technician for the Royal Norwegian Bureau of Atmospheric Sounds — a position obtained by accidentally winning a thumb-wrestling tournament in Oslo. She spoke four languages fluently and a fifth that she had made up herself. Linguists called it "impressive." Her mother called it "a phase." They met aboard the world's smallest intercontinental ocean liner, the SS Marginal Progress — technically classified as "a large canoe" by maritime law — on its only route: Reykjavik to Toledo, which geographers have confirmed makes no sense. Josh bumped into Kristin on the Lido Deck (a folding table near the mast). His cheese portfolio flew into the air. Her fog charts scattered into the North Atlantic. They locked eyes. "You," said Josh. "Me," confirmed Kristin. It was, by all accounts, extremely something. Seven years passed. Aldovia was absorbed into a neighboring fictional country, leaving Josh without a diplomatic portfolio. He became a freelance cartographer specializing in places that don't exist, which was, unexpectedly, a booming industry. Kristin rose to Senior Director of Fog, overseeing atmospheric sound operations across three archipelagos. She published a dictionary of her made-up language. It sold eleven copies. She considered this a success. Neither of them talked about the ship. Both thought about it constantly. This is called "being normal about something." The reunion happened at an airport in a city neither of them were supposed to be in, under circumstances a later court filing would describe as "a series of misdirected luggage claims." Josh's bag ended up in Kristin's carousel. Kristin's bag ended up in Aldovia, which shouldn't have been possible. Josh recognized her immediately. She was standing in the wrong baggage line — the one for oversized items — holding a regular-sized tote bag with complete confidence. "You're in the wrong line," he said. "I know," she said. "But the right line was long." He laughed. She laughed. The luggage attendant had seen too much. What followed was, by their own description, "basically a normal relationship" — which, given everything, is somehow the most romantic part of the story. Coffee. Then dinners. Then a dog with a completely reasonable name, which both of them consider their greatest achievement. Josh proposed in a moment that was private and genuine and belongs only to them, which is why it's not on this public website. Kristin said yes. Aldovia sent a congratulatory telegram. It arrived twelve years late, which is on-brand.