The One Where I Write This While Simutaneously Gesticulating Wildly.

Dear Lover,

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.
Well then.
So be it.

Love,
Me.