thought seen imagined
I need to get some tomatoes from the market. All the best ones will be gone by the time he’s finished with me. And he’s not even painting it on a fresh canvas. God knows how much my idiot husband is paying for this, but it’s too much I had more fun going in the back with the cobbler, and he didn’t complain about my teeth. But this one. He says he wants to paint me, then lists all the things that are wrong. Stop laughing, he says. I want that closed mouth smile. Who is he – with his ratty beard, hiding remnants of at least 3 meals, to talk about appearances? I wish he’d just disappear in one of his flights – of – fancy machines and leave me to my more corporal pursuits.