I’ll live in a yellow house, the paint scratched and ageing. There will be an orange tree tall enough to reach from my window. In the mornings I will rise and brew strong black coffee and stand on my bare tiptoes, robbing fresh fruit off the tree from the balcony. We will eat the oranges sliced into quarters, juice dribbling down our elbows. I will hang out my underwear to dry in the wind and wear a house dress like all of the old Portuguese women. At night we shall sip vinho verde outside on the steps in Bairro Alto, our legs kissing the cool pavement as the sound of fado drifts through the street. You’ll teach me Portuguese and lift me up to dip my toes in the Atlantic. One day you pick fresh bougainvillea and place it in my hair. I will feed all the stray cats tinned tuna.