So, there you are on a rainy Sunday afternoon. You have been stuck to the sofa all day channel surfing and you would be quite embarrassed if anyone knew exactly what you have been watching. You are uncomfortable, hungry, and bored. But, ah well, just chalk it up as another lost rainy day.
The idea of a pickle has been bouncing around your head for some time, but you have been too lazy to get up an get one from the fridge. Finally, you break inertia and get off the couch, dragging you feet all the way into the kitchen. You look at the pile of dirty dishes and act like you did not see them; this trip is about the pickle. You open the fridge and reach to the back and pull out the jar of pickles. It is an old jar that is half full with pickle juice and only has one mangy looking pickle floating in it that appears half eaten. You put the pickle jar back in the fridge figuring that you will just have to find something else.
It does not take too long for you to learn that there is nothing else, and that just tears it; you realize that this is pathetic. Motivated now, you shower and head out of the apartment to go to the grocery store. On your way out of the building you run into a neighbor and have a little chat. It turns out that they are going to a pub to meat up with friends to watch some game and asks you if you want to come along. You agree: that is, you choose to go.
Upon entering the pub you scan the place for anyone you might know. You do not find anyone you know, but you do fix on a beauty that is absolutely radiant. You follow your neighbor as they work their way through the tables and cannot help but stare at the beauty who seems to be glowing. You realize that your neighbors path will take right by the table where the beauty sits, and so you begin to get a little self-conscious. When your neighbor stops at their table, you get downright nervous. Introductions go around and you nervously find a seat, which is across from that incredibly radiant person. After about ten minutes, the shock passes and you relax, compose yourself and lift your eyes to the other side of the table only to find that unbelievably beautiful person looking at you in the same way.
Fifty years later you both are sitting on the porch, rocking slowly and holding hands. You smile at the thought that you would never had met this person, whose side you have not left in the past fifty years, if it was not for the fact that you wanted a pickle on a rainy Sunday afternoon.