What I really want is an Austenish cottage with flower gardens and an apple orchard. I want to be puttering in my garden while a gentle breeze blows. I want to glance up at the pony and sheep grazing in the meadow and see a gentleman approaching on horseback. I want the delicious thrill of realization that it’s My Mr. Darcy and he appears to have urgent business with me.
I want him to be wearing a long riding coat. I want him to stroke my face with the back of his hands, the way Aragorn does to Arwen. Then I want him to kiss me tenderly, pledge his love by saying something proper like “You have my undying affection” at which time he will produce a basket containing a pie. Strawberry rhubarb if you please, although cherry or peach would work as well. We’ll have pie with fresh whipped cream and tea and admire each other and the flowers and pony and sheep and orchard beyond.
If all that is impossible then I would just like a funny, intelligent, artistic guy to show up at my door with some books, some music and a pie. He can forget the horse and the long coat and the cottage. We can get all that later. But the pie is imperative.