If you asked me what I wanted, this is what I might have said. You or I would wake up, when the room was grey and misty, so we might pretend we were the first creatures to stir in those hours before the sheets dripped sunlight and the waves grew big. You or I would fix tea, for both of us. You would go to town, to attend to something or another, and I would write, in a dim, dusty corner of the small house, where I had only a small view of the ocean. I would take one break before noon to drink a second cup of tea out on the slim porch, leaning on the railing and watching the beachcombers and seagulls and pelicans. At one point, you might silently kiss me on the forehead while I sat at my desk. In the afternoon, we would swim. Not in the ocean. In the small, blue pool behind our house, hidden amidst a mess of banana leaf trees and palms and other sorts of lush plants that you watered every day that it did not rain. We would kiss in the pool. I would write for two more hours. We would go out, to dinner, and order wine and dessert. If it was cool that evening, we might leave the porch door open to the briny air and light a fire in the fireplace. We’d sit near the flame, taking turns reading lines from whatever book out loud. We might fall asleep on the sofa.