Based on a common writing prompt using Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants" as inspiration.
The mural on the wall was so faded it was impossible to tell what it was. She leaned back in her chair, turned her head skyward, and let the perspiration drip behind her ears. The ceiling fan barely rotated.
“I hate you,” she said to the top of his head.
“I know. It’s one of the things I love about you.” His thumb swiped left. Then left again.
“No, I mean it this time. Like, really.”
“Umm hmmm. Like all the times before?” Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.
“No, seriously.”
“Okay.” Left. Left. Left.
She noticed, not for the first time, that the part in his hair was just too perfect, almost as if it had been carved there. Or as if that precise location on his head were something his hair needed to run away from. “You don’t believe me.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. You say you do but it’s with that tone.”
“What tone?” Swipe left. Swipe left. Swipe left.
“The one you get when you get like this.”
“Oh, like this.”
“Stop laughing at me.” She swatted at a mosquito.
“I’m not laughing.”
“Yes, you are.” The young family at the next table over were making a game of feeding their toddler. The toddler turned his head away at the approaching carrots. She picked up a fork but put it back down again; she knew exactly how he felt.
“No, I’m not.” Swipe. Left. Swipe. Left.
“You are. It’s like when you shout. You don’t have to raise your voice for you to be shouting at me. You have your own way of doing it.”
“My own way.”
“Yes.”
“Ok.” He swiped left several more times.
“No, it’s not ok.” She caught the waiter’s eye and made the motion for the check. He gave a slight nod and began winding his way through the maze of bistro tables.
“Ok, so it’s not ok. How should I fix it?”
“Why is it my job to tell you how to fix yourself?” The waiter appeared at her elbow. She picked her phone up from the table, tapped the screen several times and then waved it as lazily as the ceiling fan in front of the terminal. A beep confirmed the transaction and the waiter moved away.
“Because I don’t think I’m broken,” he said. Swipe left. Swipe left. Pause. Swipe left.
A mosquito landed just to the right of his perfect part, but she didn’t swat it away.
“Well, something’s broken,” she muttered. She looked down at her own phone: Tap. Tap. Tap.
“What’d you say?” He raised his head as she frowned at the screen. He loved it when she wore her hair this way.
“Oh, nothing,” she said.
And swiped right.
© 2018 Malice Grant
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.