Once again, prompt courtesy of Be Kind Rewrite‘s Inspiration Mondays.
“Well I think it would be romantic,” she said.
“Really? You think being stranded thousands of feet up in the air, in a little basket, at the whim of the wind, is romantic?” he said.
“It would be quite the adventure.”
“Adventure? Who are you, Phileas Fogg? Jeez Louise.”
She wanted to ask who this Phileas guy was, but didn’t want to seem stupid. So instead she got angry. She started yelling about how they never did anything except stay at home. How her friends have all these great stories about making love on mountain tops or under waterfalls or on the backs of elephants. And what did she have?
“Nothing,” she said. “I just sit there quietly, their pity crushing me.”
“How does that work?” he asked.
“They look at me, and I can tell they feel sorry for me. But they’re also kind of smug about it.”
“No. Not that,” he said. “How do they fuck on an elephant?”
She stared at him. Anger like sparks catching dry tinder. Flaring up. Licking at the kindling she had placed in a small tepee structure. He noticed the flames in her eyes. Could imagine the smoke beginning to billow from her ears. Could hear the knots popping as the logs heated up.
“Okay, okay,” he said, folding the newspaper he held and setting it on the coffee table. “I’ll go make some sandwiches, grab a bottle of wine, and we’ll go take this hot-air balloon ride. All right?”
The fire doused, embers whistled as they extinguished. She laboured a stiff smile and told him to never mind.