The One Where I Write This While Simutaneously Gesticulating Wildly.
I can't imagine anything more perfect.
Than the idea of sitting out on a veranda.
Surrounded by red potted Geraniums hanging from wrought-iron window baskets.
Sipping a cafe latte.
And devouring a croissant.
If this means.
A relocation to some Italian village.
With you becoming a fruit vendor at a street market.
And me rubbing my fingers raw on a washboard.
So be it.