My favorite daydream is about leaving my wife.
Don't get me wrong... I love her, and I couldn't imagine ever living without her. But something about the very idea intrigues me.
I get this inexplicable urge, a bit like when you're driving and you feel the greatest thing in the world to do would be to cross lanes into oncoming traffic. You know it can't turn out well, but the idea captivates you.
You know, just because you could.
We have a good system, she and I. We get up at 5:30 or 6:30, depending on the time change-because we don't feel the need to go through the jet-lag-recovery process twice a year when we're not actually going anywhere. Besides, we like to be up with the sun.
I put the coffee on and go out to the porch to smoke a cigarette while she cooks breakfast. Neither of us puts anything on over our underwear. We've only been married a few years, so we haven't reached the point where it's no longer a novelty to see each others' bodies on display during our everyday routines.
Breakfast is ready by the time I've finished my cigarette and scanned the day's newspaper. We talk about what we're going to work on during the day, unless there is something particularly exciting in the news.
After that, we split up for the morning.
I lock myself into my office, which is really just the second bedroom with my piano and a small desk in place of the bed. The previous owners' dresser is still there, and it serves well enough as a place to store sheet music and notes.
I spend the next few hours composing-usually jingles for TV or radio, background music for low-budget movies, scores for plays and musicals... whatever pays the bills.
She takes a shower then spends the rest of the morning sewing in the living room. She's gotten a fair reputation with the neighborhood women over the past couple of years since we moved here, so she always has something to work on.
Occasionally, someone comes over to get a dress fitted. Those times, I like to take a break to sit and listen through the thin office wall to the sound of her chatting happily along with the customer.
Around noon we walk over to a sandwich shop down the block for lunch. I have a sub and she has a salad. We talk about our work, the future, or nothing at all. Then, we go back to the house and our respective rooms.
She does more sewing, unless it's a slow day. In that case, she plops herself onto the sofa and watches soap operas on TV or reads a romance novel.
I go back to the piano, only this time it's to work on my own pieces. Some of the better scores I've done have gotten me attention from orchestras over in the city, so I've got a couple of symphonies banging around I'm pretty confident will do well.
After that, I spend some time practicing jazz standards or improvising on blues numbers, because I pick up some extra cash by playing at bars on weekend nights.
At five I finally get up from the piano. I go to the living room and sit down next to her on the sofa, and she curls up against me. We watch TV for an hour or two, and then she gets up to start dinner. I watch the early news while she's cooking, and I maybe do some reading afterward if she takes long.
We eat in the kitchen. We have wine with dinner, and if the weather's nice we open the windows to let the breeze in.
The few hours until bedtime are where we get our variety for the day. Sometimes we go to a movie or pick one up and watch it at home. Sometimes we have drinks at a friend's house-martinis for her, bourbon for me-though we don't know many people here very well. Sometimes we talk about starting a family.
We get ready for bed around 10. I take a shower and come out to find her already in bed, reading her romance novel in a nightie or just her bra and panties. This is enough for me, and the book has usually gotten her more than in the mood.
The brief period of time afterward, when she's draped over me, snoring, and I'm somewhere between waking and sleeping, is when I have my daydream.