Ask any fiction writer and they will likely tell you…
For breakfast, we ate old cheese with the polka-dots cut off and drank the red tea you brought back from Cape Town. I handed you slices of cheese in silence as we sat on our beloved Oriental rug. I suggested we paint our walls the color of our tea-stained mugs.
For lunch, we felt too lively to eat our ham. We wished for kale and ginger, a house whose walls weren’t shedding—maybe the curved yellow kind in Paris, or the flat brown types in Brooklyn. We scribbled our plans on legal pads and picked at our toes.
For dinner, we slurped soup and sucked down wine. We went to our deck, watched bats punctuate the pink sky. You painted your nails to match the holly bush and I applied my blush to match the bats. We looked at our long lawn for more inspiration; we spit out fruit seeds; we retreated indoors having gathered nothing but bug bites.