cortado, mi amiga.

we have dreams—and good ones, actually. is this what it means to have a soulmate? could we actually be aligned? could i actually have met someone and fallen in love with someone who feels the same way about me and wants the same things i do? there isn't a fundamental reason for us to part ways; nothing down the road that we'll have to tackle later. the relief i feel when i see him smile at the same things that make me smile, when our interests and wants and needs collide is like toppling over a tower of puzzle pieces, all falling into the right place.

we want to live slower in a place that's safer, sunnier, and greener; to finally have peace in our lives after our tumultuous trials, far away to cultivate and foster our dreams and feel the grass beneath our feet. we want to sit in the sun, absorbing the life that shines down onto us, relieved of any anxiety—outside of whether or not our peonies will bloom.

my dream is for our home to be a centerpiece with a smattering of deconstructed rooms that serve the purposes of our hobbies and entertaining. guest rooms in the form of tiny houses, flanked by flowers and gardens of greenery. we want to be communal, offering hospitality to good people as often as we can and as much as our gardens will allow. i want to take care of animals and return to the real world, leaving as much of this digital life in the rearview while still expressing myself through code whenever i'd like.

there's fast internet—partially because he needs it for his job, but mostly because we both want to continue our digital projects (though it's mostly me). we name the greenhouse our conservatory because i loved finding out miss scarlet was the murderer with the candlestick in it. there's a mix of old world and new world, modern amenities and sustainability to keep us within the range of our ethics and principles as much as we can in a world falling apart. we can have it, we might; if we can push for the remainder of our working years, until you and i can finally leave all of this behind.

i ask him if i write about romance too much. he grips my shoulder and bends down to kiss me, my head leaning back from the typewriter.

"i love the way you see the world," he says, his smile sliding into a grin. it's infectious, which i hate especially when i'm angry at him, because his smile reminds me of everything i feel whenever i see good in the world, and it all feels like a cliche. i push down the nagging feeling that something must go wrong, that it can't be this good, that a love like ours is unhealthy because we actually want to spend time together. everything is good.

his back is turned but as i'm churning out keypresses on my empire, punctuated with a ding, i hear the low baritone through his boyish grin: "plus, the money's nice."

pour another?