Fishing in Beirut

There’s always something you’re going to learn. You’re going to find it out, and you didn’t want to. In Laura’s case this was the truth of what Aria had done. Her actions, and what led to them.
She remembered the day, Aria having called in the early morning. Saturday, and Laura groggy on the phone.
“What, you want to talk now? What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
Laura had known there was something the matter for months. This had affected their relationship, made it hard and uneasy and false. Conversations like actor line rehearsals. Wiping foam from the dishes in their Paris apartment, Laura smiled, and felt sad and alone.
Marie came in. She’d been in the other room, tidying around and re-arranging. She said a room never grew stale if its contents were moved.
“Ca va?”
“Ouais ca va. Tout va bien?”
“Oui – mais je suis fatigué.”
“Moi aussi,” said Laura, “moi aussi.”
Marie dried the plates and the rest. She stacked them and put them in cupboards. The day was overcast and threatening rain, bringing a heaviness inside as well. The lack of energy in the air was infectious and tough to counter.
Laura smiled at Marie. The way she just came in and helped immediately. It brought back a memory of when it was the two of them here, before Aria arrived. It was a flashback experience to see Marie stacking the plates.
Laura rinsed a cloth and ran it over the table. It caught in a splinter and the noise tingled through her teeth. It was that momentary shiver, a whistling blackboard intake, a feeling induced by chalk, or nails, or some such. She rolled her shoulders and carried on with the job.
A crack of sunlight appeared, a laser beam across the wet surface, and then thinned even further and was no more. Music from another apartment suddenly took its place. It rushed in, fast heavy metal, startling the two of them by how loud and unexpected it was. The thump of the drums, and lyrics all dense with misogyny.
“Oh, mon Dieu,” said Marie, putting her hands over her ears. Laura closed the window, but was laughing at the same time.
“You don’t like that?”
“Quoi?” shouted Marie, not hearing.
There was a commotion down in the courtyard, the same middle-aged shrews who complained about the bin usage, now up in arms over noise pollution. Pretty soon the offensive ditty ceased.
“C’est fini,” said Laura, making a finished motion with her arms. Marie took her hands away. The silence was broken by the clucking tones from below, the women, having dealt with the music, seizing on the opportunity to once again fuss over the bins. The wrong material was always in the wrong compartment.
“Les poubelles encore?” asked Marie.
“Ouais,” said Laura. “Naturellement.”