Greece
An ancient city by the Mediterranean Sea
And old house made of bricks and mortars atop a steep gravel pathway
A small garden bearing tomatos on vines, green peppers, squash
A flower bed; roses; red and pink; bees buzzing around
My kids on the terrace running around in their flip flops; kicking a ball around an old well
A kitchen; Detached from the house; windows opened to the sea; door almost nonexisting
My man is in the kitchen with me; sitting beside an old island in the middle of the tiny brick kitche. I'm standing by the counter, mixing onhredients for a Persian/Greek dish of stuffed pepper and tomatoes. He is cutting freshly picked tomatoes on an old cutting board. He throws jokes at me sometimes. Sometimes we talk history and architects sometimes ideas and opinion. Politics. Virtue. Socrates.
The smell of the sea is enhanced by the flying afternoon breezes. The kids rush in and grab their simply made plates and fruits and rush out to play some more with the couple local kids the befriended. We pick the aromatic dishes and Poe ourselves a couple glasses and step out, pass through the terrace, walk by the garden, and sit at the patio tables over the cliff looking down at the sea. The sun is setting down. The drink smells like flowers. The food melts on our tongue. The moisture in the air so soft on my skin. The company warm by my side, looking in my eyes at times, looking away at time. I know he is happy with me. I am.
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