She pleases me, your wife. I admire the way she wears her hair, often on her head but just as often dangling from an elbow or balanced on the tip of her nose. Her nose? Oh, don't get me started on your wife's nose! I have lost sleep to thoughts of that pitted sea cucumber let me tell you. I could rub that nose until asked to stop, probably even longer.
Your wife, she crosses her legs in a most singular manner: behind her head. I have seen her at the cinema, at a restaurant, at the wheel of her Ford Focus, ankles laced behind her occipital bone. I confess to picturing the tension, at that moment, in your wife's hamstrings, the pressure of the fabric of her trousers or track pants (your wife does not wear underwear in my imaginings) against her labia and related feminine parts.
She smiles, your wife, in two stages. First, her natural underbite thrusts forth her bottom jaw, her lower lip curls, and for a brief moment an array of scuffed incisors is revealed, glistening in their reservoir of saliva. Then the upper jaw comes into play, lurching forward to overtake its agile sibling, the pouting upper lip (bearing stubble, droplets of sweat) retreats, exposing large and (I like to think) fragrant incisors of various shapes and attitudes, as well as flashing hints of silver amalgam in the distant molars. One of your wife's front incisors appears to be dens invaginatus, a tooth within a tooth. In some cultures such teeth are believed to bring luck in crop farming and carnal love.
I do not mean to idealise her, your wife. I realise she has her foibles, including (if rumours are to be believed, which I am not convinced they are) a taste for poker machines, cask wine and men named Sandy. Your wife's personality can sometimes veer towards coarseness. I believe you are aware of these issues, as I am. Yet she pleases me, your wife. Hold on to her with all the strength you can divert to your tattooed biceps, my friend, because the second you let her go: she's mine.