The reflection of the setting sun shimmered on the Mediterranean. Her face glowed in the rose-gold light as she dug a toe into the sand.
“I like it here.”
“It’s not practical.”
His back was to the water, his eyes on the buildings bunched up at the shore. The wind blew his overlong hair into his face.
“Come on, let’s go get packed.”
“I’d rather stay.”
“Yes, you and the rest of the world. Come on.”
Her simplistic view of the world used to seem endearing, heart-wrenching. Innocent. It was rapidly becoming annoying. She didn’t move, stood staring at the horizon.
“Fine, whatever, you stay. Camp out on the beach. See if you can find a temp job. Whatever. I’m going to the hotel to pack, I’ll leave your stuff at reception.”
He stormed off of the sand onto the over-hot black road. At the last moment, he stopped, looked back.
She was still stood there, motionless.
He sighed and walked back to the hotel and packed her bag as well as his. He double-checked the time, the tickets, the passports, before heading back down to the beach.
“Hon, we’ve got twenty minutes to get to the airport. Come on. Come home.”
She turned slowly to look at him and smiled.
“Okay, but we’ll come back, right?”
He sighed; every holiday they had the same conversation.
She followed him to the road and hailed a taxi. He said nothing until they arrived at the airport.
“You know we can’t just stay, right?”
She took her bag out of the boot of the car.
“But at least I didn’t have to pack.”
Sylvia Spruck Wrigley spends her days writing short stories and watching to see the stories that the sparrows bring back to their nests.