A disagreement, a bedroom and a song

Assignment: Write for at least 700 words about a disagreement, a song and a bedroom. Focus on creating a compelling setting.

He was ready to go. He had been ready for more than an hour and had been impatiently waiting for her to get ready. He looked up from a well-thumbed Paris guidebook when she finally appeared through the bathroom door. She took a look around the room, taking inventory. With lips pursed, she strode to the bed, pulling the duvet up and stacking the pillows nicely. 

His eyes followed her.

“Why are you doing that?” His exasperation coming through as he enunciated each syllable.

“What? I’m just straightening the bed so we don’t look like slobs,” she said as she smoothed the crisp white duvet and pulled the slightly threadbare embroidered gold spread across the foot of the bed.

“It’s already nine o’clock. The day is wasting.”

“Oh, relax,” she said, rebuffing him. “We’re on holiday. I don’t want to wake up at the crack of dawn and start marching all over Paris. Besides, you could have done this while I was putting on my face.”

Somewhere out on the street, a guitarist started strumming La Vie en Rose. “Listen to that. Can you believe we’re finally here?”

He had to move his legs and reposition himself in the old chair as she came around to his side of the tiny room. He closed the guidebook and slid it on to the little table beside him. The furniture was all nice, but more than a little worn. It was one of those typical old Parisian hotels that may have been elegant at one time – 50 or 100 years ago – but now needed a wealthy owner to come through with builders and decorators. It had been recommended by friends as a romantic place to go, just steps from the Seine in the Latin Quarter.

“We have exactly three days in Paris. By the time we get done breakfast, it will be past 10. We could already be at Versailles. Last night we agreed that we'd get an early start.”

“Relax, honey. Versailles isn’t going anywhere.”

“You’re missing the point!” his voice rising. 

Having finished fussing with the bed, she turned to face him with her arms crossed.

“And what is the point?” Her voice wavering ever so slightly.

“The point is that I have wanted to see Paris my entire life. This is the only chance I’ll ever get and not only do you want to sleep in and waste time, you want to make like it’s nothing.”

“I’m doing my best. I’m not you, you know. I am not a morning person.”

“I’m not asking you to be!” Now he was yelling. 

He never yelled.

The colour drained from her face and she turned away from him. “Why are you so angry?” 

She was crying. In the old brocade mirror he could see her cover her eyes with one hand. 

“Oh, jeez.”

They stood like that for a while. Her with her back to him and hand over her eyes. Him puffing out short breaths, gripping his teeth with his lips. Eventually she wiped her eyes with both hands and pulled them through her hair. In the mirror she saw him.

“I can’t stand how you look at me now.”

Their eyes met in the mirror. 

“Can we just go?”

They stared at each other. Married for 25 years. At the start of a dream holiday. Finally, it was she who looked away, dabbing her eyes with a tissue to clean up any smeared makeup. 

“All I want is to have a nice home and a nice marriage, but you look at me with such hatred some times. This is the girl you married," she said spreading her arms and cocking her head to one side.

He let out a long sigh, forcing all the air out of his lungs. He blinked slowly, but didn’t say a thing. He just moved to the window and looked down onto the narrow cobblestone street. The guitarist was leaning against a wall with his case open in front of him. A businessman tossed him a Euro as he strode briskly down the narrow sidewalk with an attache. The guitarist nodded and smiled a thank you.

A few people sat around the little tables outside the café on the corner. His eyes settled on a young couple holding hands as they finished their coffees. The street was mostly shaded still, but the sun was rising quickly and would soon bath it in July’s heat and humidity. After a pause, he swung open the old window and leaned outside, arms resting on the iron railing. They stayed like that for a moment.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she said, putting the tissue away and turning to him. “Or are you going to just file this away again?”

He breathed in deeply again and smiled as the young couple, still holding hands, rose from their table at the café and kissed each other. 

“No. I don’t think I can do that anymore.” He turned to face her. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”