I imagine us in Paris or London in a simpler time you see in period dramas where affairs of the heart grow like willows on the river banks and evening wears a luscious gown lit by lamps. I see us dressed impeccably for tea and not much beyond a subtle glance or politely placed words of praise or banal observations made, but later in the corridor, the creaking boards carry me past propriety and sleeping aunts to dare my way into your room to undo the pretty, scented thread of you. What we would do in your bed, your hair fanned out around your head on the pillow, my clothes thrown across a chair, a candle licking at the darkness there. But the children snore and murmur things and climb between us in the night and wake us before the morning light has crept our way again. And time is like a fish I hooked but cannot wind in. If I could, I’d build a mansion in a virgin wood and we’d live like the Brontës and let the children run and play in their own gorgeous garden while we held time at bay and were lovers every minute of the day. But time is a darting fish my line cannot slow, it streaks and ducks below the surface of the water and down we go holding breath until we re-emerge a day, a month, a year away so many knots we can’t untangle, no art to make the time yours and mine.