IT WAS HOT; WE STAYED IN THE WATER

I've always had visions of myself sitting on a hardwood floor, staring up at rose-colored curtains barely concealing a setting sun, incense smoke permeating my hair and clothes, listening to gentle, brooding music, while I doodle lazily into a sketchbook. I'd be alone and there would be a half-eaten apple next to me that I've been working on since yesterday. It's brown in some spots, and someone long ago would have pointed this out to me and urged me to throw it out. But it sits on my dresser and at times I'd pick it up and chew on it thoughtfully, like someone would with a pencil.
Would I be in New York and listening to cars and people hailing taxi cabs, and children running around fire hydrants? Or would I be where I am right now, watching the lights flicker around the tennis court, and hearing the ball hit the racket with a satisfying thwack?