“…and DON’T forget it!” she screams at me through the slammed door. Women.

I reminded her: a woman can’t open her legs without opening her heart too. I bury today’s love-note in the sugar bowl. She hasn’t found any this week, but that’s ok. I’ll keep on hiding them.

The current silly phase she’s going through is renaissance painting. Bad idea to suggest she first takes classes in perspective. And patience. But she laughs when I waltz with her slashed and spoiled canvasses, humming Chopin.

She’ll be at work in twenty minutes. Perfect timing for my roses to be delivered; Valentine’s is early this year. I keep her picture on my desk for secret, one-sided conversations. I don’t think she knows.

She has 158 pairs of shoes. Last week I spiralled them around the studio floor, leading to a glass bowl of ivy leaves in pink-tinged water. She trod the spiral and wound the ivy into a coronet. My princess.

It’s hard for her. I know she wants children, a home, a ‘normal’ life. Women are socialised into wanting that. She pretends she doesn’t love me. But I know. We women always do.

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