Why Don’t You?

They are in the car. It’s a dark-gray Peugeot they rented at the airport in Lisbon. The charcoal seats soak up the light. Carl is driving. His wife, Lily, sits beside him, looking out the window.

Their coats are tossed in back with the luggage. They’ve been lucky with the weather since they’ve been over, almost two weeks, but now the trip is coming to an end. Tonight is the last night. They’ve reserved a hotel in Évora, a town a little larger than the others where they’ve been. There’s a famous cathedral there.

The windows are down. Lily’s skirt is blowing around her legs. Carl glances over. She’s sitting up very straight, her ankles crossed, hands folded on the guidebook, which is lying open in her lap. She was just reading aloud to him about Portuguese churches. She looks self-conscious, like a schoolgirl in a choir, or a woman in a restaurant, alone.