Laying in bed all day, out for Italian food for dinner. Now, out on the back porch fantasizing about the future to distract us from the idea we don't know when we'll see each other again. Before, it was just Red Toaster. Which means me, her, an apartment with a red toaster. Eventually, Paris. Now it seems to us some European city with wine and bread and coffee, a couple of flats a couple of blocks away from each other and a cafe somewhere in between -- how unlike most people, and ourselves even in the past, we're quite keen on getting to our 30s. We'll have partners who get along with one another and are willing to crash at one place every other weekend, while we crash at the other. They will smell nice and wear smart clothes and meet us in the mornings with coffee and eggs. Hers will be a photographer and I'll take the filmmaker on default, although I'm not really bothered. We'll do big collaborations together, study Italian film making, and never fight.
Our fantasies for the future always include wine, bread and coffee. And a place where they don't speak English. So do our poems, for that matter. But this is the first time we've included boys. Well, this is a big step forward for the Stepholiz. And we were surprised to discover it only after the fact. For some reason we think things will get better in our 30s, just like we thought they would in our 20s when we were teenagers. That the ones we love won't want to fight over nothing, and that things can be civilized and gentle, at least most of the time.
Somehow we think everything is possible except the boys. So maybe we'll just stick to wine, bread and coffee.