An act of cruelty, a foyer and a businesswoman

He’d been sitting there so long his ass was hurting. He also needed to go to the bathroom, but was afraid if he left his post in the lobby, he’d miss his chance to talk to her. So he had spent the last three and a half hours flipping through every magazine on offer and even read the entire coffee table book in front of him. The lengthy wait almost made him forget his nerves.

“Who the hell writes a book on the history of an insurance company?” he thought. Turns out it was started by a farmer in the 1930s. They’d started a cooperative to pool their money for crop insurance. Now, 80 years later it was a global corporation. Demutualized was the term they used in the book, meaning it was owned by shareholders on the public market today and not a group of hayseed farmers from the windswept plains of southern Manitoba. 

He got up to walk around and tried to straighten the creases that were making his suit look older than it actually was. It hung on his thin, bony frame a bit like a poncho - maybe two sizes too big in the shoulders and tailored for a man 40 pounds heavier around the middle. He'd have taken the jacket off, but it hid the ridiculous way he had to cinch up his oversized pants. The lobby was well appointed, but not overly so. The walls were faux wood and were hung with various paintings of Prairie farm landscapes recalling the company’s early days. Behind the receptionist were multiple clocks showing the correct local times in London, Toronto, Vancouver, Sydney, New Dehli and, of course, home base in Winnipeg.   

After making several jerky circles of the room, he couldn’t wait any longer and strolled up to the receptionist who had been steadfastly ignoring him for the entire morning. 

“Hi again,” he said. She forced a smile. “Could you tell me where the men’s room is?”

“Oh,” she paused, looked down at a piece of paper on her desk, then tapped the end of her pencil against a writing pad for a few seconds. 

“It’s just I’ve been waiting all morning and…”

“Yes, right. Well, you see the washrooms up here are off limits to the public, but you’re welcome to use the ones downstairs at the Starbucks.” She smiled broadly. “They don’t mind.” 

“Oh, um, okay. Will you please tell Ms. Stromberg I’ll be right back?”

“Certainly. I’ll tell her.”

He took the elevator down and crossed the foyer to the coffee shop. 

Worried that he’d miss her, he hurried about his business, barely drying his hands so they were still wet to the touch when he stepped back towards the elevators. And there she was. Or at least the back of her, heading out the door. He could tell at an instant and ran after her.

“Ms. Stromberg! Ms. Stromberg! Wait!” he called as she marched down the sidewalk in her crisp blue skirt and jacket. She wore a perfect white blouse topped with a brilliant silk scarf around her neck. The colours complemented her blue eyes and cream-coloured skin, while the clothes fit her thin, angular frame perfectly.

“Yes? Who are you?” she said just as he reached his wet hands to touch her hand. They both pulled back and she tipped her sunglasses down her nose at the young man

“Um, well, I’m your…” he stopped with his mouth open. 

“Yes? You’re my what?”

“Your son.” he blurted.

Her eyes took him all in: the terrible suit, the wrinkled shirt and dusty sneakers, the shaved head. She slid her sunglasses back into place and walked away at the same pace and purpose as she had before.

“Wait! You don’t know how far I’ve come to see you!”

“I don’t care. Someone put you up to this. Now go away or I’ll call the police.” 

Within a few steps she had climbed into her BMW and was driving away.

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.”

A teacher, some jewelry and a torch

Assignment: Write for at least 150 words about a piece of jewelry, a torch, and a teacher. Focus on distinguishing characters through dialogue.

“That pendant is lovely,” he said. Tempted to let his eyes linger on the curve of her neck and rise of her chest, he quickly lifted them and flashed that effortless smile he always had for his students, before directing his attention back to tidying the work bench.

Marla somehow felt his discomfort and knew he was attracted to her. At 16, she was really only starting to understand how men were influenced by a little exposed skin. She was both embarrassed and a little aroused. Mr. Brown was one of the most popular teachers. The boys liked him because he taught shop and played at being young and hip. The girls adored him for his smile and mop of curly hair.

“Did you make it yourself?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

“The necklace. Did you make it yourself? I remember you telling me that you liked home made jewelry and wondered if you tried making it yourself.”

“No, no. I’ve never been able to work the torch well enough. My welds are always too messy.”

“I could help you with that,” he said, and instantly both of their heart rates rose a little.