Disclaimer: This story is based on fact. Any similarity with fictitious events or characters is purely coincidental and/or deliberate (although the author may feign outrage over the latter and call it ‘creativity’ or ‘divine inspiration’ if backed into a corner). The Featured image above was “borrowed” from the internets, and is from the 1959 film ‘Pillow Talk’ starring Rock Hudson and Doris Day. The film’s name is being used as this story’s title, because some don’t know it, and most don’t care. Any or all characters in this work are also suspiciously unknown to the author, so are their Twitter handles, obsolete LinkedIn profiles, and current Facebook relationship statuses.
Her: You know what would be perfect? A month long writing retreat far up in some kind of mountainous region. I know of a writer doing one right now. Think how beautiful that would be, just snow capped mountains all around, a small cozy cabin above a valley, not another soul in sight, clean air, comfort food, an overstuffed chair by the window, coffee, a laptop… Yes. A writing retreat is just what I need.
Her: Hmm? Just hmm for a snow-capped-mountains-small-cozy-cabin-above-valley-not-another-soul-in-sight writing rereat?
Him: I’m reading, I thought you were writing. But okay, you should do one.
Her: Wow, too quick. You just want me gone.
Him: That’s not the point.
Her: True. The point, is one month of peace, and one full story.
Him: You think you can do that?
Her: You lack confidence in my solitary capabilities, obviously.
Him: When would you go? Summer? Spring?
Her: And, autumn, and winter.
Him: So, a year long retreat.
Her: No. One month in each season. It could equal to four separate drafts, so that might work out well.
Him (sighs): Four separate months of peace… for you, of course. You should go.
Her: I feel like you’re already helping me pack my bags.
Him: No one can help you pack bags, no one can even offer to help you pack bags. But, that’s not the point.
Her: Yes, the point is you want to live without me. If you were another kind of husband, you would never want me gone.
Him: Except to get groceries.
Her: Speaking of groceries, I would need to go shopping before my retreat. The weather would be different there, I’d need coats and whatever else cold climate people use. And, boots. Yes, some new pairs of boots.
Him: You mean one pair of boots from your I-have-far-too-many-boots collection.
Her: No. I’d need hiking boots, and one go-into-town boots, an Oh-my-God-these-heels-are-so-gorgeous boots, of course the don’t-these-boots-make-my-legs-look-good boots, and then, some soft lounging boo…
Him: I’ll give you a hundred bucks to stop talking right now.
Her: That wouldn’t even buy me an inch of a boot heel.
Him: Look what just appeared on my screen out of nowehere. Online air travel bookings. We should take advantage of that. When do you want to go, and also, where?
Her: Hmm mountains, mountains. Switzerland. So cliched, but its also perfect. Let me Google some pictures for you… See? Beautiful, panoramic, absolu…
Him: Because, there is not a single mountain available within our own borders? Not even a mole hill?
Her: I like to think big.
Him: If you mean ‘height,’ then let me enlighten you about some of our mountains which rank quite high on a global scale.
Her: I didn’t mean big in that sense, I meant, I like to think beyond. – Beyond borders, beyond the confines, beyond what is right here, beyond…
Him: Available budgets, and my bank balance.
Her: If I’m ever famous, you don’t get to share my fame.
Him: So, you write for fame.
Her: Of course not. It’s the money. It’s always the money. I’ll use it to turn you into a kept man.
Him: You write for money.
Her: Of course not. Writing matters to the heart. Fame, money, that’s just icing on the cake.
Him: How far up in the alps would you like to bake your cake?
Her: As far up as Heidi.
Him: How soon?
Her: So, you can count the days to my departure?
Him: I have an app to do that. But again, not the point.
Her: What about my goldfish? Unlike you, they would miss me.
Him: When did your tarantulas turn into goldfish?
Her: Last week when they dropped creepiness, and began gaping open-mouthed at everything I said.
Him: You promised me their next mutation would be horsey.
Her: There’s time for that. They’re getting leggy though, so it might be sooner than later.
Him: Good. I can already picture them galloping away from the fold, and my fridge.
Her: I thought they’d go when they mutated into bat-like birds and their wings grew strong enough.
Him: Wings are overrated. Besides, with wings they can circle and swoop back down without you knowing it. If horses turn and gallop back, you’ll hear them coming. Then you run.
Her: I’ll up their calcium. No, you’ll need to do it. I’ll be gone for a month.
Him: Four. Four different months. Let’s stick to the plan.
Her: Which include boots.
Him: I didn’t hear that.
Her: Then, no gifts for you from Switzerland.
Him: I’m fine with that, as long as the end result is me being a kept man.
Her: Hey, look at this gorgeous picture. Beaches in the Canary Islands are so pretty. A writing retreat there wouldn’t be a bad idea either come to think of it. And, before you argue that we have a beach only ten minutes from our house, just know that I am talking talcum powder beaches. White sand beaches are meant for writing retreats, not sun worshipping retirees or newlyweds. I can just picture it… the waves all ripply and not crashing on my private beach, not another soul in sight, my laptop, and my rum cocktails. I’d also have a really comfy recliner, and one of those huge beach umbrella things in bright yellow, because you know Canary Islands, and there would be palm trees rustling somewhere behind me while my white Labrador runs and rolls in the talcum….
Him: Please stop talking.