The picture

Strangely, I've always wanted to appear natural in your picture. Not excessively gifted by nature with a beautiful face or striking looks; just real. I thought you would place me in an old rustic kitchen, nothing like the ones we have these days... One with cold water and concrete slabs; no modern artifacts to marr the scene. I pictured a cheery little fire place breathing warmth into the room where I'd stand in an old blue dress. I'd have an apron of course, it'd be white with stains of soot from when soiled hands strayed unconsciously. They'd be an old toothless black dog asleep at my feet on the cold stone floor and a wooden table at the centre of the room loaded with a colourful assortment of fruits and vegetables.... My hair would be wild, tangled in the way only sea breezes can or perhaps the eager fingers of an amateur lover. I'd be smiling, a smile woven by the laughter of children or walking barefoot in the sand.... There'd be white sheets hung out to dry, billowing in the wind like incarcerated angels fighting for their freedom. Then there'd be you, beautiful as ever, seated behind the untamed sheets in those moccasins I beg you constantly to throw away. That premature grey in you hair that you think makes you look distinguished would be even more evident now amidst the myriad of blinding white cloth. You'd have a playful lopsided grin on your face as you drunk every thing in and translated it to your intriguing poetry that is art. Then, you'd be as intoxicated by me as I am, always by you.