I was tall and of medium build for my height. Reasonably handsome, nothing exceptional although I definitely improved with age. I had long, dark brown hair that was for the most part tied in a ponytail. A bit of an ageing hippy I suppose but no poseur, I had my hair style way before those vain city slickers. I was a relatively successful artist with a decidedly impoverished past; I guess thatís what gave me something to think and get angry about.
I was married in my early twenties. My wife and I got by the best we could, much of our earlier years she supported me; she had great faith in my talent. I lived for art. It was my one true passion. It was a spiritual vocation.
I met Anna, my wife, at an exhibition for young, urban artists. She was admiring one of my favourite works and appraised it with uncanny perception. I listened for a while, barely able to conceal my amusement as I agreed with her observations. Eventually I confessed that I was the artist. I have to admit that I was initially drawn by her natural beauty. Her vibrant smile and blushing cheeks made my heart bound. She was perfect, like a porcelain doll. Something in her stare seduced me and I found myself desperate to know more about her. I felt that I knew her in an instance and found myself gazing into her eyes without listening to a word she was saying. The amused expression on her face said more than any words ever could. We instantly became friends and from that day our relationship flourished. We fell in love and never looked back.