Sitting outside the café Barabier in the Olympic Village, Doug takes a break from his jabbering friends and leans back in his chair.  It’s a horrible habit his eavesdropping, but nonetheless a useful one, perfect over years of growing up in a household full if arguments.  He is surprised by what he hears at the next table, it’s English, British English though, not the familiar American.  The wind is picking up, boats rock back and forth in their slips, voices carry stress.

“But you don’t listen to me, you’re not thinking about my needs, only your own.” He winced, no doubt a conversation that has taken place many times before.

“Do we have to talk about this now?  People will hear.”

“I can’t stand it anymore Peter.  I thought we were going to live in the countryside.  I can’t take that slum of a barrio.”  Peter inhaled deeply as sarcasm rolled off his tongue,

“There’s nothing in the countryside dear.  I told you I’m just waiting on that promotion, I’m basically guaranteed it.  I just need you to wait a little bit longer, then we can move to someplace much nicer.”

“I can’t write here,” she was talking with her hands, almost frantic, “the noise, the cramped space, I feel blocked.  My head is swelling with ideas but they can’t get past the wall.”

“You should find a spot that you can write in,” he’s looking at his paper, it’s all routine for him, almost devoid of emotion, “go to that park by the Arc ‘de Triumph, or Park Gwell.  Find a spot that you like.”

Doug is ripped back to his own table with a change in language.  Camille is talking in Spanish and singing a song with the waiter.

“She must be getting drunk,” he thinks, “She starts to get uber friendly like that and tlak in Spanish when she’s drunk.”

He looks over at Ethan who shrugs and occupies himself with his beer.

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