I’m married.

It’s nice, really nice.

The man?

He’s handsome and smart. 

He loves me. 

I love him.

We have three houses.

One in the city,

one by the beach,

and one in the woods.

It’s nice, really nice.

We’ve got one dog and one cat.

They’re sweet.

No kids, not yet at least.

We’re early along in our marriage but we know it’s forever. 

Isn’t that sweet?

I’m a painter. 

I’m not sure what he does (if this is only a daydream)

Does it matter? 

If he’s happy, if I’m happy?

If we’re content together, what does it matter?

I like the house in the woods the most. 

Mostly because I’m left alone to do my work.

I paint in a little cabin out back. It’s got big windows that let in lots of light.

The floors creak a little when you walk on certain spots. 

And I paint with my socks on. 

It’s nice.

When the weather is good, the windows are open and thin curtains wave in.

And the air is sweet.

And I’m happy, really happy. 

But mostly I’m content.

I have a woman who lives with me. 

She’s a good caretaker.

She feeds me when I need to be fed, so I can focus on my work.

Every night I sleep next to the man I love.

And I wake up the same way. 

I like seeing how soft his face looks in sleep. He’s so young, so sweet to me. (But not really younger than me. Hopefully a few years older, that would be nice)

At the beach house, we eat breakfast together on the one balcony that overlooks the sea.

It’s a rocky drop down. But a peaceful look out. 

We eat eggs and fruit and ice cream and drink coffee.

After we finish he gets dressed and kisses me on the cheek.

He says, “I’ll miss you so terribly”

And I say, “But you’ll see me so soon I promise”

And then he smiles and leaves.

I put on loose pants and a loose shirt and perhaps a jacket if the weather is cold.

And I head down to the sea.

And I sit for an hour or so and figure out what my plan is for the day.

The days when it’s overcast and rainy, they are my favorites.

Sometimes I’ll just lay and think for awhile. The sand is always nice and cool.

Some days I’ll just read instead of paint.

In the living room of the beach house.

In a big armchair by the window.

In the city house.

Sometimes I show my paintings at galleries, sometimes I don’t.

Me and my husband get drunk and go out. 

And we’re stupid and happy. 

Together even when we’re apart. 

I hook my hand in the crook of his arm and pretend it’s a movie. 

Except I know it’s not. 

It’s nice and it’s my life and I’m happy, really happy.