The Ring Road – Part 1: One Small Bed

"It's very small," said Leila.

"It's cosy," said Mark.

"It's the size of a biscuit tin."

They stood together at the back of the rented campervan in a car park in Reykjavik, holding bags, staring at a fold-down bed barely wide enough for one. Outside, cold white wind blew across the harbour. Eleven years of marriage and two children had taught them many things. Neither of them could remember the last time they had been alone for more than an evening.

Leila was thirty-nine, quick and sharp, with a travel notebook already half full. Mark was forty-three, easygoing and tall, his head already bumping the roof. "I'll drive first," he said. "You navigate."

"You'll get us lost."

"Then we'll be lost together."

For a week they drove the ring road, a ribbon of black tarmac around the island. They stopped at roaring waterfalls, black sand beaches, steaming lava fields. They cooked noodles on a tiny gas stove and ate them in lay-bys while sheep watched. They argued, briefly, about the map. They laughed more than they had in years.

On the fifth night they parked at the edge of a quiet fjord. The sky turned violet, then deep indigo. The campervan rocked gently in the wind. Inside, Leila sat cross-legged on the little bed in thick wool socks, and Mark handed her a cup of hot tea.

"I miss the kids," she said.

"Me too." He sat beside her. "And I like this."

"This?"

"Us. In a biscuit tin."

She laughed, and rested her head against his shoulder. "Mark."

"Yes?"

"I'd like it if you kissed me."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Midnight Light.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Midnight Light.