The Houseboat – Part 1: Low Ceiling

"Mind your head," said Rachel.

"I'm minding it."

"You've hit it twice."

"That was the same hit. It echoed." Marco rubbed his forehead and grinned. The houseboat swayed gently under them. It was a narrow wooden vessel moored on a quiet canal in Amsterdam, painted dark green, with geraniums in the window boxes and a skylight over the bed. Rain pattered on the roof. Lamps glowed on the bridge outside.

They had been married fifteen years. Rachel, forty, was an architect. Marco, forty-three, was a paediatric nurse, and between his night shifts and her deadlines and two children and a dog, they had somehow forgotten to look at each other. This weekend, with the children at their grandparents', was a gift neither could quite believe in.

"There's a bottle of wine," said Rachel, finding it on the tiny table. "And a note."

"What does it say?"

"Welcome. The kettle is temperamental. The boat is not."

They laughed. They explored the tiny galley, the bunk, the compact bathroom with its fold-down sink. They ate cheese and bread at the little table by candlelight with the window cracked open and the canal murmuring below. The boat creaked and rocked in the dark.

"I forgot we were this good at doing nothing," said Marco.

"We were excellent at it."

"I'd like to get excellent again."

Rachel looked at him across the candle, her chin on her hand. "Marco, you're propositioning me on a boat."

"I'd like to. If it's welcome."

"It's welcome," she said. "Come here."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Skylight.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Skylight.