Marganell

A couple discussed their next move. Written for Writers Cramp. Prompt for 03/10/2026.

“I may take a holiday in Spain.”
         I looked up from my book, thumb holding my place. “What?”
         Josette was leaning over the balcony railing, her elbows casually propped on the ornate iron-and-stone barrier that stood between her and the three-story drop to Wijttenbachstraat down below. Music wafted from Koffie & Koek across the street-- no doubt bustling with the Tuesday evening afterwork crowd by now—and the Line 19 tram sounded its pending arrival.
         “Barcelona,” she said and turned in my direction.
         I arched an eyebrow. “Thought you hated it.”
         “No, I didn’t,” she said, stepping back inside the living room. She sat beside me, grabbed the book, and chuckled. “How long have you been reading this?”
         “I’m trying to get into it,” I said, retrieving the book from her. I set it on the coffee table, turned to face her, and took both her hands in mine. “What’s wrong?”
         She closed her eyes and let out a soft breath. I waited a beat. When she opened them, her gaze seemed to plead for me to give voice to her thoughts.
         “You’re ready to move,” I said.
         She nodded. “Bingo.”
         “Why Barcelona?” I asked.
         “We haven’t lived there yet,” she said.
         This was true. In the past five years, Josette and I had lived in four different countries— Portugal, France, Belgium, and Germany— before moving to Amsterdam ten months ago. “Too fast here?”
         She stifled a laugh. “Can you believe it? This canal life is simply way too much for me.”
         I smiled, took her left hand to my lips, and kissed it. “But you want to holiday first?” I asked. “And why Barcelona? There’s got to be a compelling reason beyond the simple fact that we haven’t lived there before.”
         “Does there have to be?” she said, a playful challenge in her tone.
         “Well,” I said, standing up and walking toward the kitchen, “in Cascais it was all about coastal living; in Lyon, it was about the food.”
         “I was fascinated with Gent’s medieval vibes,” she offered.
         “Yup,” I said, opening the refrigerator and grabbing two cans of Thai Thai Spicy Tripel before heading back to the living room. “And Dusseldorf was mainly because you loved saying the name.”
         “Dusseldorf…” she said, then laughed. “It’s funny!”
         I sat back down, popped the cans open, and handed her one. I took a sip of the spicy creation from our favorite local brewery, then said, “And you want to holiday first so you can—”
         “Find my reason,” she said, finishing my thought.
         “I see,” I said, taking a larger gulp of the beer, then chuckling. “I mean, I guess we can live anywhere as long as we can mobilize quickly.”
         “Exactly!” she said, standing and walking to the balcony. “Fitz doesn’t care. Not really.”
         “He doesn’t,” I agreed, joining her. A few blocks away, the lights at Oosterpark beckoned casual strollers into the nighttime air. I turned toward her and couldn’t help from marveling at the profile of one of the most lethal contract killers in Europe— who happened to be my better half and, quite literally, my partner in crime. “You open to living near Montserrat?”
         Josette turned to me, a quizzical expression on her face. “You want to live in the mountains?”
         “Why not?”
         “I haven’t lived on a mountain before.”
         I smiled. “It’d be a new experience, for sure.”
         “Could be fun,” she said. “Plenty of space—”
         “For target practice,” I said, completing her thought this time.
         Josette smiled, stood on her tiptoes and planted a quick kiss on my lips. “Marganell?”
         “You read my mind,” I said. The op we ran in that quiet rural town seven years ago was the most logistically complicated mission we’d ever undertaken—four days, start to finish. It was also the first time Fitz had paired me with what was then a lone operator known only by the code name Mamba.
         “Well, it’s got my vote,” Josette said. “They had that cute café next to the post office.”
         “You remember that?” I asked, wide-eyed.
         “Of course!” she said. “The best churros I’ve ever had.”
         “You think it’s still there?”
         “I hope so,” she said, wistfully.
         I stepped back inside and looked around our cozy one-bedroom flat with all its typical Dutch stylings. “I’ll miss this vaulted ceiling.”
         Josette laughed. “Yeah. Me, too.”
         “Okay,” I finally said. “I’ll Telegram Fitz. He’ll only be slightly annoyed.”
         Josette smiled, a devilish expression crossing her face. “Or we could simply pack our bags en gaan meteen naar Barcelona, want we moeten hier weg.”