Your girl loves to travel, but she hates the airport. Can you relate? Everyone is rushing and if you're not moving fast enough – so help me God – don't look at the person behind you. You're on their list. Everything is meant to be organized, but nothing ever is. TSA feels they have more authority than they actually do. Some people take a hint of rule and run light-years.
Let me just find the English boy and get the hell out of HERE! Combing through the crowd, I walk on the tips of my toes as I try picking him out. He wouldn't check-in without me, right? He has my boarding pass.
Finally, I spy a guy rocking a man bun using his luggage as a seat and the raised handle as an arm and chin rest. The moment he sticks out his phone, mine begins to ring. Why didn't I think of that?
Wanting to continue the streak of sneaking up on him, I silence my phone. Disappointment reads upon Marcel's face as he rests his cheek on his arms. After making my way through the congested crowd, I take the opportunity to flick his bun.
"You didn't think I'd show?" I ask.
"Took you long enough. I almost fell asleep."
When Marcel doesn't lift his head, I walk to the other side of his white tee. "Here." I try handing him money, but he doesn't take it.
"I invited you." He lies.
"I invited myself."
As Marcel sits up, his face possesses a red print from leaning on it. "And I allowed it. Buy yourself something pretty in Amsterdam."
"Get up." I pinch his arm.
When he snatches away from me, Marcel ends up tipping the four-wheeled suitcase. Here you go with this crap. After his black Converses go into the air, I pick up the suitcase as giggles and concerned whispers fill the section.
In disbelief, Marcel says, "No fucking way." I chuck it up as he rolls over laughing.
"Get up. You're so embarrassing." I have no control over my giggles as I take his arm with both of my hands. "I'm blaming you for this."
"You're blaming me? I've been assaulted." He picks himself up and nudges me away as he secures his backpack. It's the softest shove. It felt like a gust of wind... a breath... baby breath.
"May I have my ticket?" I hold out my hand. His brows rise. Will you stop it? Closing his eyes, this dude shoos my open hand as he walks around me. "Oooo attitude."
"Excuse me, security!" He calls, sprinting. Wishing to shut him up, I chase after him, but he shouts, "This crazy woman is chasing me!"
I hope he gets arrested.
ON THE PLANE
Somehow, this fool didn't get arrested for running through the airport yelling like a maniac. Will I survive a weekend with him? We shall see. All I see at the moment is the sun rising from beyond the clouds.
"What would interest you in Amsterdam?" Marcel questions from the aisle seat. His knees press into the chair in front of him as he sinks in his.
"How many times have you been there?"
"Countless times." He watches the clouds.
"How do you feel about museums?"
Marcel slaps his hand on his forehead. What did I say? He sucks his teeth as he looks into the aisle then delivers a sharp side-eye. "Oh, God. I have a nerd on my hands."
"What?" After his judgemental stare, I put away the screenshots on my phone. I'm hurt. "I want to explore the Rijksmuseum and the Anne Frank House." My voice shrinks as I go on.
Picking up my phone, Marcel rests his head on his shoulder before saying, "I've never been to the Anne Frank House. We'll go there." He sets the device back down then gazes up to me. "I also have a few places I want to take you."
Picking up my phone, I mumble, "I'm not a nerd."
"You're a nerd." He disagrees.
I'm not impressed by much, but I've never seen such exquisite architecture.
"There's no way we're staying here?"
"It's a lot. I know, but I told you this trip was for a change of scenery." Marcel tries to defend his hotel choice. This is a palace. As I pull my eyes from the ceiling, they land on him. He can't hold the contact as he pinches his lips.
"Let me help you pay for this."
Once again, he brushes off my offer as he grabs my suitcase. "Let's change and explore the city. Are you hungry?"
"Always, but Marcel-"
"Okay. We'll take care of that once we check-in." He leads the way as my eyes continue to wander. "Angel."
"I'm coming." I follow.
. . .
Since Marcel's hands are full, for the first time in his presence, I get to open a door. As the door parts, I rest my back along the doorframe with crossed arms. He modestly nods as he drags our bags behind us. It's safe to say Marcel does the most when he travels and he's not ashamed by it.
Accustomed, Marcel trails into a bedroom to leave the luggage at a dresser. Pulling up his pants, Marcel flexes his hands, soon to rub them together.
Since he won't let me put a finger on the bill, I try putting my finger on the backstory. "Are you the lost son of a billionaire king of something? Drug dealer?" I guess. He laughs as we walk through the room. "Prince? Emperor? El Chapo's nephew? What is this?" I toss my arms in the air as a sign of surrender.
"This-" He opens the blinds. "is the Amstel River." His black, ripped jeans sit on the ledge of the closed window. I drop my bag. Joining him at the windowpane, I find people walking along the boardwalk and ferries enjoying the bright morning. "Do you like your room?" His ocean eyes wait for my approval, but first, let's ask the most important question.
"Where are you sleeping?"
"There's another room around the corner."
"I love it."
"I brought my camera."
"I would hope so."
"I'd love for you to be my muse this weekend." His boyish smile meets mine. Does that count as a catch?
"You want to take pictures of me for the next two days?" I try caging a nervous scoff, but it comes through my nose as I look down on the butterflies in my stomach. Crossing my arms, I try keeping them locked there, because when I look back to Marcel, his smile sends them into overdrive. "That's intimidating," I mutter, quick to bite my butterfly freeing tongue.
"Camera Shy?"
"Yes." I tuck my hair behind my ear. "In mythology, The Muses were nine goddesses, deities-" I shrug at the other name. "who gave artists, philosophers, and ordinary people the necessary inspiration of creation."
"9 you say?" He smiles with a nod. "Hm." He checks out the people on the river as I watch him. "I'm a huge fan of Greek mythology."
"Same here. Always said I wanted to name my daughter after Athena."
"The goddess of defense."
"Also wisdom, law and justice, strength and many more," I add. "My favorite goddess," I note as I watch the people below. "I'll give this muse thing a crack. I don't know how good I'll be."
"You'll have fun." He gets up and grabs his suitcase. "I promise."
TIME LATER
Just as I'm finishing my outfit, there's a knock on my bedroom door. For today, I picked out a red, floral, wrap dress. My hair holds a side part and water waves. To keep it casual and comfortable, I paired black, biker boots.
"Come in." I allow as I'm clasping my dainty, diamond earrings. That's when I hear a camera's shutter. My eyes flicker over to the noise. Marcel seems proud of his first shot. "So, that's how it's going to be?" I walk over. "Let me see."
"I'll show you once we get back to London." He holds the camera over his shoulder.
"You won't shoot anything innap-"
"I'd never do that." He pledges. "You don't have to worry about that." He takes serious consideration as he lowers the camera.
"Okay." I take a gander down on it then up to him. Yes, he's only about 6 feet. I still have to look up! His eyes are deliberately soft, wanting me to have trust in his taste. I grab my purse from the bed as he tosses the camera strap over his neck. "I'm ready when you are."
The fact that our hair is similar and tucked behind the same ear allows a passing smile. His naturally curly hair just hits his shoulders. The white button-up he's sporting is missing its first two, which unveils hints of his chest tattoos and cross necklace. His long fingers are (as always) decked with silver rings. My roaming eyes continue to muster, collecting sight of his knee-ripped skinny jeans that transition nicely into his black boots. A muse.
"What happens if I want to get photos of you?"
"I'm no model." He walks out of the room. Okay, but you pull attention everywhere you go. I know you've noticed. Then, people have the audacity to mug me, because I'm too close.
"Neither am I." I follow behind.
"You're much closer to it than I am." He says. He's as smooth as chunky peanut butter.
"Stop flirting."
"I'm just stating facts." He opens the door for me. I stand at the doorway with narrowed eyes as his head dances on his shoulders.
"Thank you." I give the classic Up and Down glance as I exit the room. You better watch yourself.
"You're welcome. I hope you're wearing shorts."
"Don't look at my ass." I take a swat at him.
"I'm asking," He knocks my hand away to defend. "because we may take a bike ride. Stop hitting me. I already have a bruise from you." He pinches my side, almost making me leap out of my skin.
Our... My second photo was shot in the lobby of the stunning hotel. In red, I stood out against the black and white architecture.
Marcel is fond of off-guard photos. This one had to be mid-stride while I was just looking over to him. I know within the same shutter, I was looking down at the camera. I can't wait to see the photos, because every time he reviews, a pleased smirk skates across his face and the butterflies spread their wings. Cutting into his review, he steps aside to let me walk through the automatic, front doors.
"They have restaurants inside the hotel, but I wanted to go out."
"That's fine with me." I accept.
. . .
After a train ride, Marcel led us to this endearing Dutch restaurant. The scents were strange, but I welcomed the diverse culture.
"I love how we just arrived in Amsterdam and you already have me in a different city."
"Leiden is a small, yet beautiful, Dutch town. When the Spanish were driven out, it's said they left behind cooked scrapes of an unfamiliar stew of onions, parsnips, meat, and carrots. The residents named it Hutspot. It's a bit of a victory meal here. Till this day, it's a tradition."
"It's delicious." I gather another spoonful.
"They have beautiful museums here as well." He begins to give into my nerdy ways, knowing he has some as well. I could tell by our first real conversation that he was intelligent. Presuming all the traveling he's done, it's safe to say he's cultured and urbane. "Egyptian, Roman, and Medieval archaeology, but I would love to go to The Anne Frank House."
"It's still early." I look at my watch. "There's a lot to do in two days."
"I didn't want to tire you out." After setting his spoon into his empty bowl, Marcel picks up a roll. No, I want all the bread.
"Let me live. I can sleep when I'm dead." I smile, earning one from him then pick up a menu. "I really want dessert."
Leiden was charming. We did decide to rent bikes to get around. Marcel thought it would be cute to ride with no hands and almost ended up in a canal. One day, he'll learn that he's not coordinated. I see wet clothes in the future. We rode by Der Werff Park. Many were enjoying the sun and feasting on romantic picnics. It was a beautiful, little town. I'm happy I got the chance to spend time there.
"Have you read her diary?" I ask Marcel as my hand lightly touches a particular bookshelf of the Anne Frank House.
"I've skimmed through it. I haven't fully read it."
"Such a brave young lady. It feels like this happened in the 1700s, but it's so recent." I take a step back, accidentally bumping someone. "Excuse me. I'm so sorry." I check over my shoulder.
"You're fine, sweetheart." The older lady taps my back.
"You should read the diary. Writing is an escape. I haven't done it in some time though." I continue looking around the small room.
"Let me guess, work?" Marcel pulls his lips aside as his eyes roll the other way.
"Be quiet," I order.
He mugs me over his shoulder, but it only takes three seconds for it to evolve into a smile. A smile he didn't want me to see.
Something told me our quiet, playful nature was too bright for such a space. Out of respect, I thought it was best for us to leave.
"It's such a gloomy vibe here."
"You're ready to leave?"
"Yes."
"Okay, let's go. I have something fun for us to do." He rubs his hands together on the way out.
"Should I be worried?" I wait a moment before walking out. "Marcel?"
GAME TIME
"Now look, I don't like playing with people who are sore losers and cheaters." He points the neon golf club at me. I tap it with mine.
"Your shirt is glowing in the dark."
"And so are the flowers on your dress." He pokes my stomach. "Ladies first." He steps to the other side of the obstacle.
As a smirk appears, I tilt my competitive expression. "We should make this a little more interesting. What do you think?" I tap my club on the dark blue course.
"We can't strip here, Angel." He whispers.
"Stop." I laugh. "The loser has to eat raw herring." I offer.
Marcel kisses his teeth, disappointed by the proposal. "Are you mad?" His voice is monotone and uninterested. Stripping seemed to excite him though.
"Are you scare of losing." I step to him with a pout and baby voice.
Biting his lip, Marcel looks away from me then he swipes his finger pass his nose. "I'm trying to save you from a weak stomach." He looks down at me.
"How considerate of you, but I got this." I take my stance at the first hole.
Observing the twists and turns of the course, I try devising a strategy. I know nothing about golf. How the hell am I supposed to make this ball curve? You better bring out your inner Tiger Woods, because I don't want to know what raw herring taste like.
Just as I'm about to hit the ball, Marcel yells, "FORE!"
I retreat from my light tap. As he's laughing, I tap the ball and watch it curve around the course. "Respectable." I step back for him.
"Watch how it's done." Marcel wiggles his hips to loosen up. I bit the inside of my cheek as his ball passes mine for a hole in one. "Boom." He drops his club as he throws his arms in the air. "Haha." He walks away with an arrogant smirk.
"How many holes do we have left?" I grow nervous.
. . .
"Good for you it's May. They say herring is it's sweetest from May to July."
"That's very true." The handler agrees. Oh my God. It smells like sewage and the scraps of Hell's armpit.
"Angel." Marcel holds up his hand. His eyes are closed as he pinches his nose. "Don't talk to me."
"I'm guessing someone lost a bet." The handler waits for his meal to be eaten.
"Yes. Eat up, kid." I rush the timid guy by patting his back with encouragement.
"Fuck." He inspects the raw fish. "Hold this." He hands me the camera from around his neck.
"So nasty. No offense." I tell the man.
He blinks a few times as he sighs, "Americans."
"Okay okay okay." Marcel collects the guppy on his fork. This guy is truly contemplating his life.
"Aw sweetie, you don't want any of the onion and pickle?" I taunt as I point.
"Here." Marcel holds the fork close to me.
"You don't think I'll eat it?"
"Eat it." He brings the fork closer to my face. I open my mouth, because mama ain't raise no bitch. His eyes widen as I take the bite. Closing my mouth, my fingertips rest on my lips as I chew. Unfortunately, the scent lingers under my nose. "How is it?" He giggles as my face frowns up. Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! "Swallow." His taunt goes in more than one direction.
"Oh my." I swallow as tears come to my eyes. "Ew." I open a bottle of water. Please save me. "You have to." I feverishly point to the tray. "Do it." I can't suffer alone.
"I gave you an eye." He reveals with a devilish grin.
"Did you seriously?" I freeze, searching the tray for a missing orb. My eyes trail up to the hefty handler.
"He didn't." He mouths.
"Eat it!"
"You gotta do it, young man. The lady here is tougher than you." The handler continues.
Marcel stops his poking to send a glare. I've seen that before. He carries the fork to his lips as he stares at the forage fish.
"Put it in your mouth." I direct as I grow more impatient.
"Yes, I've said that a few times." Marcel takes a bite of the fish after flinching, anticipating a wack from me.
His fist balls and rests at his mouth. I take a snapshot. He gags, but fights it as I step away holding my stomach laughing.
"No. Absolutely not." He leaves the remaining fish as he staggers away covering his mouth. "I'm never coming back to Amsterdam." He claims as he spits to the side. I'm still doubled over with a weak stomach of my own, but it's all giggles.
"How old are you, 12?"
"25."
"Then stop acting like a baby." I trot after him. Bringing on premature wrinkles, I fathom, "You're 25? You look younger."
"How?" He uses a napkin to wipe his tongue.
"You have a boyish face."
"Well damn." He holds up an arguable hand. "I'm not 78. If I didn't know any better, I would think you're 19."
"I'm 26."
"You're kidding." He looks at me. "When's your birthday?"
"Today."
"Happy Birthday." He gives me a soft smile then looks at the bricked sidewalk. "How's it going?"
"It's going nicely." As I say that, Marcel's face frowns up. Another giggle escapes my mouth as he sticks out his tongue.
"Oh my God, my breath is killing me."
"Wow, we love an excuse for more dessert."
"Lanskroon." He advises.
. . .
"Don't. Don't. You don't have to." I want to throw my hand over Marcel's mouth to prevent him from singing.
Hurt, he sits a hand over his heart. "I've been told that I can sing."
"I rather you not." I grimace as I look around the busy confectionery. I knew he was going to do it now. He spotted weakness and wanted to expose it.
"Aw, you're shy. Perfect." He clears his throat. "Haaaappy biiiirthdaaaay tooooo yoooooou." Marcel begins to sing.
I cover my frugal face. He goes through the song with a smooth yet rough tone that my ears begin to appreciate. When I drop my hands, I find it hard to look him in the face. My shyness has completely possessed me, but I try fighting through by taking peeks of him. I'm not sure where he was looking, but his eyes spring to mine as mine bounce to his. That's when I got stuck. I'm drowning. Throw me a floaty. He sang the last few words slowly and with a prevalent smirk.
"Make a wish." He waits.
I pull my lips to side as I eye the chocolate and cookie crumb cupcake. Closing my eyes, I blow out the single candle.
"Done." I celebrate by clapping my hands together. Marcel narrows his eyes probably overly curious by my desire.
"What did you wish for?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't come true." My smile hides a secret. Marcel takes the candle, relights it, and wishes the flame away. "What was that?" I smile as he sits the candle on a napkin.
"I can't tell you. It's a secret between me and the candle."
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