another week passed, the mundane and simple rhythms of laundry, of being together, of cleaning the floors. some days are long and descriptive poems, but on other days, the poetry is short. these were days of familiarity, the quotidian habits of bathing in lavender bubbles and saying i love you to him. the week was punctuated with a book of inspiration
, cover to cover, read in the sunlight: a book that inspires her art and her business. the week was punctuated with cold, white ceramic bowls of tiramisu gelato; the flavors of dark chocolate and espresso and mascarpone melting over her tongue. they spent the week together, working from their home, brewing milano espresso. the week was punctuated with an evening out for sushi, together, sharing many cups of hot green tea. the week was punctuated with that spicy, natural scent in whole foods that makes her feel 'home'. the week was punctuated with a meal in a another's home: a friend from france, who lives in a home filled with twenty-somethings from all over the world. many of them sat together around the table, drinking australian wine, dipping crusty bread into french camembert that had been baked with herbs and garlic. french music played, and the men who knew the words sang along under their breath, whisking a homemade vinaigrette for a salad. they all shared stories of travels and dreams for seeing more of the earth. another evening after dinner, she turned on the sea and the rhythm, and they listened on repeat, literally for hours. they shared childhood memories in between verses. they let the lyrics wash over them; he felt the emotion of the banjo. tonight, we're the sea and the salty breeze; the milk from your breast is on my lips and lovelier words from your mouth to me when salty my sweat and fingertips. our hands they seek the end of afternoon, my hands believe and move over you. tonight, we're the sea and the rhythm, there the waves and the wind and night is black, tonight we're the scent of your long black hair spread out like your breath across my back. your hands they move like waves over me, beneath the moon, tonight, we're the sea. one evening she loved him and pampered him, scrubbing his skin, massaging his back, shaving his face, wrapping him in hot towels, rubbing him with almond oil. she settled him on the duvet, wrapped him in his thick black bathrobe, and poured him a steaming cup of rooibos to pair with the novel in his hands. romantic and generous, they were so connected. ultimately the atmosphere in the home was of calmness. the following morning, friday, ten photographers met together in her flat. some who had barely begun, some who had been photographing for years. all artists, all ambitious. they shared brunch together... the table was spread with crusty bread and herbed ricotta, with freshly sliced produce, with bunches of red grapes, with delicate pancetta quiche, with decadent homemade baked goods from butter tarts to rich blueberry muffins. she passed around flutes of bubbly lemon water and americanos adorned with vintage golden spoons. they filled every chair, they sat on cushions on the floor and took in the inspiration of a course on business. they shared their own photography experiences and encouraged one another to dream; they became a community over photography, over brunch. 