FADE IN

In a restaurant just this side of Oslo, a middle-aged American couple sit cozy by a crackling fireplace.

 MADGE

David, this julekake bread is marvelous.

DAVID

It’s correctly pronounced yul-ya-kawk-ya. And that resinous fragrance is cardamom. Traditionally, it’s known as Norwegian Christmas Cake.

MADGE

Don’t do that.

DAVID

Don’t do what?

MADGE

Pretend intimacy with a culture and language you just met thirty-eight minutes ago.

DAVID

Just assimilating. How are the honeyed carrot tips? Your fork seems a bit hesitant.

MADGE

They’re just … reminding me of something, is all.

DAVID

Jack-o’-lantern teeth?

 MADGE

Alright. If that’s how it’s going to be, then I’ll tell you. Her nipples.

DAVID

Whose nipples?

MADGE

You know very damn well, whose nipples. Refer to racy photos I recently discovered. Assuming you haven’t deleted them — and I am.

 DAVID

Rest assured, they’re gone. And thank you again for looting my Samsung, if not our mutual trust. Look, I thought we agreed to leave all that behind us. Isn’t that what this trip is for? So, let’s just enjoy ourselves. Okay? A toast (lifts glass). To new beginnings.

 MADGE

First, tell me again what we’re drinking — without the Dolph Lundgren impersonation.

DAVID

Akevitt.

MADGE

Oh, right. Didn’t we used to have a parakeet by that name? Or was that just the awful sound it made?

DAVID

Her name was Checkers, and she was a Senegal parrot.

MADGE

He said defensively. She was fairly intelligent, now that I recall. Not so smart to know a mouse trap when she saw one.

 DAVID

God, I loved that bird.

MADGE

As much as she did cheese, I imagine. Now, about those nipples… You don’t see the resemblance?

DAVID

To a root vegetable? No. And contrary to your dill-infused aide-memoire, they were glistening with sweat, not honey. No photoshopping there.

MADGE

Don’t you dare come to her rescue, David. Don’t you dare.

DAVID

C’mon, Madge. Look, have some more Christmas Cake.

MADGE

You know, when I first saw them, I thought, Christ! You could tee a golf ball off those things! I mean, the woman could moonlight as field artillery. Seriously, did you have to wear protective goggles? And are they always that rigid or had there been a draft that evening? —Because we both know damn well it wasn’t the foreplay. Hello? David? You still with me?

DAVID

Sorry. I was just wondering where this might have gone had you ordered the steamed asparagus.

MADGE

Glib. Very glib.

DAVID

Sorry.

MADGE

Are you? Are you, really?

DAVID

Look, how about we order dessert. Here (hands her a menu). Last page.

MADGE

Oy vey. These selections! Nothing but diacritics and consonants. Why not just put it in Latin Braille?

DAVID

Just choose from the pictures like everybody else.

MADGE

Do the courtesy, for once, and allow me to make my own decision.

DAVID

Fine. Well…?

 MADGE
(thinking)

I can’t decide.

DAVID

Uh-huh. The caramel flan is mostly benign. Pretty much the same as crème brûlée, just without the narcissism. Try that.

MADGE

Why? So that I can be equally reminded of her velvety vulva?

 DAVID

Vulvae. Plural. She had two. And there were no pictures memorializing that topography.

MADGE

So, I’m supposed to thank you for leaving it to my imagination?

DAVID

Jesus.

MADGE

Oh. Before we get too deep in the bush, thank you for honoring my wishes and not ordering the sheep’s head. How you must ache, though, not having those dead, vacant eyes staring back at you. Your manhood must feel so…cheated. Not that the farikal was the friendlier choice, aesthetically. How was it, by the way?

DAVID

Eh. Lamb was tender, but I’ll probably regret the cabbage.

MADGE

I’ve a feeling we both will. I’m dry again (waves hand in air). Waiter?

DAVID

Maybe you should slow down.

MADGE

Not a chance. How about you? A refill?

DAVID

I probably shouldn’t—

MADGE

Oh, loosen up, David. We’re on vacation. Remember? Honestly, your effort to assimilate the culture has proved impressive, as you’ve now achieved the natives’ shared countenance of stark surrender. A perfect mimicry of despair and abandonment haplessly tinged with catastrophic ennui. Or, is it just the grim visage of a perpetual thaw, never fully realized, staring back?

DAVID

Why must you always channel Rod Serling when you drink?

MADGE

Because Admiral Byrd won’t take my calls. Not for fear of incurring long distance charges, mind you — since I’m sitting ringside at the Arctic fucking Circle. What’s next on the itinerary? Ferrying down the fjords? Otter watching in Oslo? Go-karting on a greased glacier in Grimstad? I hate you, David. I really do.

DAVID

And there it is. Our vacation destination doesn’t suit her, or so sayeth the booze.

MADGE

Oh, please. Liquor joined the conversation long before we had a travel agent. So, did you love her?

 DAVID

Our travel agent?

MADGE

David, I swear to God.

DAVID

Let it go, Madge.

MADGE

Did you?

DAVID

Getting loud.

MADGE

I need to know.

DAVID

Already been over this.

MADGE

Compared to me, how was she at—?

 DAVID

Oh, no. We’re not playing “On a scale of 1 to 10” again. We’ve determined, categorically, that you score higher in all things impudique. Well, all but one.

MADGE

I’m sorry, David. That’s a kink I just won’t indulge.

DAVID

So, big deal. You’ll never stuff grape leaves or play the lyre, either. I’ll get over it.

MADGE

How about a warm apple tartlet drizzled with caramel?

DAVID

As a substitute?

MADGE

No, David. As dessert.

DAVID

Nah. But I wouldn’t mind a cappuccino. And some pommes frites if you promise to leash the metaphors.

MADGE

Norway, of all places. When did it occur to you, pray tell, that I would love nothing more than to watch reindeer migrate?

DAVID

You once said, and I quote, “I want to see the Aurora Borealis.” I took that as a pretty strong hint, Madge.

MADGE

And do you recall where we were when I uttered that wish?

DAVID

Milwaukee?

MADGE

In bed, David. It was a figure of speech.

DAVID

Oh. Ohhh.

 MADGE

Did the short bus just pull up?

DAVID

Dammit, Madge. If you’d said fireworks like everybody else, we could be cozy under a Tiki hut sipping out of coconuts and planning our Polynesian retirement.

MADGE

I’ll admit, my phrasing was over-the-top — but only to match the expectation. Regrettably, I suffer delusions of grandeur. They’re all I have left. So, are they really gone?

DAVID

Your delusions? Or the grounded realities that preceded them?

MADGE

The pictures, David. Of her. For the sake of building back our trust, I need you to be entirely truthful. Have they disappeared? Every one of them?

DAVID

Okay, honestly, I might have held back a few.

MADGE

A few?

DAVID

I agree, it’s a subjective term. And just those of the upper carriage. I promise.

MADGE

Good — but only because I want another peek. Pull out your phone. Something’s long nagged me about her right breast. Not just the nipple but the whole titten kaboodle.

DAVID

Cute. Alright, here ya go.

MADGE

Who’s the new addition, center left?

DAVID

That’s, um, Maureen McCormick.

MADGE

Marsha Brady? I don’t recall her ever posing nude, let alone for Gynecology Weekly.

DAVID

That one is photoshopped. Look, can we just move on?

MADGE

Scroll down. Keep going… Keep going… Hold on. Amy Winehouse? Jesus, David, at least have some respect for the dead.

DAVID

It’s just a meme of her ‘Back to Black’ album cover cleverly renamed ‘Back to Pink’.

MADGE

Because her altered if not thoroughly inviting pose doesn’t make that destination clear enough? Alright, keep scrolling… There! That one. Okay, so it’s hard to tell, but I can’t decide if that’s a patch of rosacea made darker from the candled ambiance, or just severe scarring from a car fire.

DAVID

Neither. It’s actually a fading tattoo of Che Guevara.

MADGE

Gawd. Really, David, your taste in women…

DAVID

Tell me about it.

FADE OUT

END