On the road to Salamanca, Richard and I talk about the writing group I’ve been attending. To kill some time, he follows the writing idea and gives me a “prompt”. 

While peeling potatoes, she promised if he says that to me one more time, I’ll…”

Potatoes. Damn potatoes, we don’t even like them. But they’re easy enough and filling enough, and if it keeps him out of my kitchen for a few more minutes then I can learn to appreciate at the very least the time it takes to peel these damned potatoes.

   And if he says that to me one more time…Oh Lord, it doesn’t even really matter what “that” is — everything he says seems mean, nasty, hurtful, irritating. Every time he opens his loutish mouth something stupid comes out, it just makes me want to scream.

   So what? What would I do anyway? Scream at him? Curse? Throw a bottle or a skillet? Slam the door? Run upstairs and cry?

   Or walk right out that door and never look back.

   And then what? Where would I go? Ah, now there’s a potato-peeling thought, where would I go?

   Somewhere exotic. Maybe Greece or Morocco. Sit with a glass of wine overlooking a beach, nap with a sea breeze lulling me to sleep. It’d definitely have to be somewhere warm where there are cabana boys and those fussy little drinks with fruit and umbrellas. Yes, a cabana boy.

   Dear God in Heaven, if you really exist and you do hear and answer prayers, please let him walk in here right now and say something ~ anything to me.    

I finish reading to him. Richard looks at me and says “This is fiction…right?”

“I’m sorry, dear, did you say something?”