Photo: Maarten Zeehandelaar
There is a woman in a small room, working at a small desk. She has a picture before her of a lane that gives out on a Victorian building. The lane is sunlit and the undergrowth is broad-leaved. It’s a romantic picture that resembles an estate in Italy; someplace the upper class might flee to during the dreary winter months.
She allows herself a moment to imagine herself in the picture, walking down the lane, beautiful and chaste in a corseted gown. A man, dressed in a three-piece suit, escorts her. They’re wearing dress gloves and, after making certain that no one can see them, their fingers interlace as they stroll along through alternately sun and shade. Today might well be the day that he’ll ask her hand in marriage.
She sighs and puts the photo back in an envelope. John would probably sooner die than ask her. She proceeds to rip a page out of her blocnote and takes her fountain pen. “Charles, the picture is hopeless. There are lampposts in the picture and a green plastic container, for god’s sake. Ask Lionel if he can fix it in Photoshop, won’t you? Else I’ll have to find another image for the cover. Regards, Becca.”
Text by: Wibo Kosters
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