The Art of Oblivion ("Iceberg" from Making Shapely Fiction)

So, I realize that both characters are probably supposed to be argumentative/angry, but I enjoyed how this strategy panned out, so I'm keeping it this way.

"You know, I think it's impeccable. Her eyes never move, yet she's always watching you." Hubert commented slyly as he strolled through The Musée du Louvre, Anne-Marie dutifully following at his side. "Back when I was in Harvard, my art history teacher used to tell us how..."

Anne-Marie anxiously fiddled with her necklace, trying to decipher his words as they floated through space and made attempts to register in her consciousness. Her icy blue eyes filled with white hot tears. He's a fool. A damn fool. "Yes, she's beautiful... Mhm, you're right... Oh, I didn't notice that before..." Somehow she managed not to scream these words in his face. I don't want to be here with him. I don't ever want to be anywhere with him.

After the fifth lackluster night in Paris with Hubert, Anne-Marie had decided that she'd had enough. She was beginning to realize that her simple adolescent fantasy had suddenly revealed itself as a sham right before her eyes, and all five years too late. Hubert was one of those "culturally-enriched" intellectuals who always had something more intriguing to talk about than your topic of conversation. Long ago, this was charming. Many years previous to that night, Anne-Marie visualized running away with Hubert and spending their life together in a little dwelling in the south of France. Now, he was hideous. Everything about his personality wreaked of pretension and baselessness. As the days progressed, he became more and more visually disgusting to her, and it was a constant struggle for Anne-Marie to stay passive and submissive.

Oh, she's intrigued. She loves me, I know she does. And she's so lucky to have met me. Such a simple girl. We'll make a beautifully contrasting couple. Hubert mused as he fingered the massive diamond fastened to the ring he kept in his pocket that night. And what of her parents? They'll be so proud. Their son-in-law. A Harvard Law graduate. "Oh and oh my! The Death of Sardanapalus! Such an interesting historical value to this, don't you think, dear? And look at the detail!"

Hubert's words sounded like lines from a terrible, cheesy movie. Anne-Marie's stomach began to churn. How does he not see how livid I am with him right now? I must be completely flushed. Has he even so much as glanced at me all night? Her face was flushed, as a matter of fact. So flushed, in fact, that other tourists began to eye Anne-Marie in what appeared to be fear. Still, Hubert didn't notice. "Hubert, I don't feel well." She managed to produce as she began to perspire with rage. There must be a way out of here. I can't take another second of this.

Well, she'd better get better. Hubert thought selfishly as he gazed at the intricacies of the frame to a piece of history. He anxiously tapped the marble floors with his freshly-polished wing-tips and began to resent Anne-Marie for jeopardizing the plans. "Hm? Oh, you'll get better, darling. Maybe it's jet-lag. Or maybe you're just swooning over me," he added with genuine satisfaction. Charming and funny. How could she say no?

Anne-Marie was now entirely certain that she was finally through with Hubert. "I think you should feel my forehead. Do I have a temperature?" Turn around and look at me, you egotistical pig! Her eyes burned with fury as she stared fervently at the back of Hubert's hideous olive-tinted suit.

Oh, God. Can't you handle just five more minutes? Are you really that uncultured? "You know, we're almost all the way through. We came a long way for this." Hubert smiled as he turned to meet Anne-Marie's gaze. He looked her in the eyes a moment and turned around once more without noticing a thing. What a child! She thinks she can just ruin our night at The Louvre because she's feeling under the weather? Hah! Oh, if Jemaine was here to see this! Such a beautiful sight. Yet such a pity to be wasting the night with a child. That's just how women are, I suppose. Always wanting attention and power and little presents...


Completely absorbed in his own thoughts, Hubert had failed to recognize the swift slither of Anne-Marie's silk dress and the serious tap-tap-tap of her Italian designer pumps as she briskly and pointedly walked away from him. I'll go back to the hotel and I'll get all of my belongings. He probably won't even bother to catch up to me. I'll find another place to stay and I'll trade in my plane ticket. He'll never look for me again. He doesn't have to.


A few minutes later, once Hubert distracted himself from his thoughts and resumed commenting on all his favorite paintings, he realized that there were no reassuring remarks or little praises coming from behind him. He turned, horrified and shocked, to find a cluster of tourists staring back at him with confusion. He dug his hands into his pockets and turned around, unable to think. He pushed past the crowd and felt for the ring in his pocket. His pride and joy. It's here. They're just deep pockets. ...Well, I can't lose both in one night. But he had lost his girl and his glory that night. They were gone.