Resentment

Hotel d'Angleterre

The toilet flushed roarasly, he was finished.

All at once, the bath taps ran.
Afia listened intently.
She smiled, because one thing she could always count on, was that her husbands personal hygeiene was impeccable.

She'd only ever once had to scold him about leaving skid marks for the house keeper who did the washing.
They'd argued about that, too. She didn't like hired help. She liked being in her own home, on her own. She didn't like anyone touching her clothing, or better yet, her husbands.

Michael had lived with house keepers all his life. Nothing felt weird about tossing his worn underwear into a basket that a virtual stranger would eventually pick up and wash.

Afia shook away the recent memories of the gruelling disagreements they'd have.

Voices never were raised too high, but passive aggressive glares and doors slamming were frequent.
They were more frequent, now.
Afia listened again as the taps stopped.
She rubbed her eyes with two fists, and yawned.
Where was the remote?
That was another thing.
Michael always kept the remote.
It didn't matter if he agreed to watch what she wanted.
Like a child, he'd have to keep it in his lap.

Afia rolled onto her side, and patted the bed.
Maybe a news report would have the time, since she couldn't see a clock.
Outside was still quiet, aside of course from the hushed hum of fans, some sleeping, some still awake, not willing to miss one of Michael's surprise appearances at the window.

City traffic sounded slow, and there were no horns beeping like there was in the daytime.
Just the sounds of motors crawling by.

Afia crawled to the edge of the bed, and patted around for the remote on Michael's nightstand side.
After running her hands over spare change, a fruit bowl, a hotel phone, and a small note pad, Afia grasped it in her hands.

She wiggled herself back up and huffed, flopping lazily back into the bed.
Too many pillows.
Michael loved a bed full of pillows.
Now she had to turn the thing on.

"Affie?" Michael's voice came as a surprise, and drew a tiny gasp from Afias lips as she blindly pressed buttons on the remote which she thought may turn it on.
He wasn't in the room, but he sounded close.
He sounded tired, his voice husky, and hinted with surprise.

The glow from the toilet was gone, so he was finished cleaning up.
Where was he?

Afia squinted, as she had a stroke of luck, and the TV started up, illuminating the huge room.
This made Michael's silhouette in the dark corridor visible.
He was stood still, shirtless, and had black pyjama pants with little fried egg patterns hanging loosely on his small hips.

He always loved patterned pyjamas.

The TV was at a low enough level, and on some kind of cooking show.

"Just needed the time.." Afia mumbled, she ran her top teeth over her bottom lip nervously.
She couldn't make out what his facial expression was, but she could guess he looked tired and a little surprised she was awake.

Michael shrugged and stepped further into the room silently. His body drifted, almost as if he wasn't walking on common feet, but like he was rolling. Afia noticed his hair was tied loosely behind his head, some curls cluttering his face.

He leant down, his back to her now. The light of the tv illuminated his back, as he rummaged in a suitcase on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Afia could see the beautiful dark patches that covered his body, like ivy covers the sides of walls.