How I'd like to spend the rest of my days:

Paris. We live on the fifth floor of an old apartment building. A ceiling that’s crumbling in places and wooden floors. There isn’t much furniture. A table and three chairs in the kitchen. One ancient velvet couch. End tables. A writing desk. One floor lamp. A coffee table. Some crates. The only lavish piece is the bed. The only extravagance the hundreds of books stacked along walls. (Comme est seulement juste.) It’s early. I’m sitting on the window ledge looking over the park across the street. Cool air brushes through the thin fabric of the oversized dress shirt I wear. I have a notepad in hand. Or maybe I’m reading. Or sketching. Nothing serious. He is the true artist. A writer. Letting me read his work since the third time we met. He sits at his desk, typewriter alive beneath his long fingers. A little crooked. Never clumsy. The click of the typewriter mingles with the small voices drifting through the open window. He pauses to take a sip of his coffee. I look over, watch him take off his glasses and rub his eyes. He looks up at me. Green eyes fringed by black lashes blinking into focus. A light smile smoothes his thick brow. He stands. Goes to the tiny kitchen. Pours orange juice into a wine glass. Crosses the room. Hands the glass to me. Kisses the crown of my head. I put my things on the floor. Make room for him on the ledge. His hand on my thigh. My fingers lightly touching the inside of his wrist. Happy to sit quietly together in the slow morning hours.