Every lunch would be city-stopped sunshine Parisian cafés. Light salads and filling breads in warm afternoon breezes. Fruity wine that sits gently for the rest of the day. People wandering aimlessly with friends and lovers and riverside post-lunch walks that flush your checks the good way.
Mornings cold and crisp, but absolutely no breeze. Perfectly structured, bright white striped tops with boyfriend jeans that fit like something from J Crew. Red lips that never dull, hair that never flattens and make up that glows just the right amount.
Evenings would be soft breezes and fur throws. Cold enough to sit by open fires, but warm enough to dine al fresco. Breakfasts would always be continental. Huge. Coffee breaks never rushed with flat white fluffiness and a sweet, almond side. My boy in white jeans, charcoal tee and brown leather shoes by my side. Unread issues of Red and LivingEtc over afternoon drinks.
Sun soaked city scapes with no where else to be for the day. Seafood linguini, perfectly seasoned. Rich and creamy pistachio ice cream for dessert. Market stalls spread out for miles by sea coasts, salty smells mixed with cotton freah laundry. Snorkelling in the open ocean with my dad, knive in hand, foregoing fresh urchins, octopus, squid and clams. Itallian ramblings over the table. Scorpa, red wine, thin crust bases and swollen seasonal fresh fruit. Watermelon drips on crystal blue beaches. Boat fishing and diving into uninhibited waters below.
If it were me, everyday would be golden evenings and glaring mornings, fresh white sheets, barefoot footprints, berry lips and creamy, coconut coffee. But most of all- it would be me and him, breathing each second.
