It has come as a great surprise to me, this overwhelming desire to get out of the city as the summer sets in. I can't help daydreaming about running away to some deserted farm house with this man, and starting our lives together. I can tell just by the way that his shoulders slump forward when he greets me, or by the half smile that tortures his lips as we sit on my porch in silence, that this escape would be good for him too. He, the carpenter, would build our wooden house with his hands. In summers to come, the white paint peeling from panelled siding would show the success of our flight.
Since it doesn't seem this daydream will come true in the near future, this will have to be a substitute.