Writer’s Shop Talk: Lovers’ Quarrel?

Write an argument between your main couple, including dialogue, body language, and the scene around them. What are they fighting over?

En Route to Queens, 4:00 PM

The sky is overcast as I navigate my ’95 Audi through the congested veins of JFK’s exit roads. The dashboard clock reads 4:00 PM, and the air outside is a cool 49°F, with a persistent drizzle that has begun to mist the windshield. Maddie’s luggage, a testament to her long journey from London, is tucked away in the trunk, while she, draped in weariness, sits beside me.

As we merge onto the Van Wyck Expressway, the Friday afternoon traffic is already swelling like a tide. My mind is a battleground of concern and desire. Maddie had been adamant about going to my place, her voice threaded with a longing that matched mine. Yet, as the city’s skyline recedes behind us, her head finds its way to my shoulder, her hair carrying the fresh scent of Herbal Essences, a delicate reminder of her presence.

Then, unexpectedly, a soft snore escapes her. It’s rhythmic and gentle, almost musical. I can’t help but smile; it’s endearing and amusing, especially since we’ve not slept together yet. It’s a quirk, a new layer to the Maddie I’m still getting to know.

The decision is made for me as I watch her sleep peacefully despite the stop-and-go traffic that turns our journey into an hour-long ordeal. I take the Grand Central Parkway, then the Jackie Robinson Parkway, weaving through Queens towards Jamaica Heights. As we pass the historic King Manor Museum and the bustling Jamaica Center, the route feels different with Maddie by my side.

As we approach her apartment building, the familiar sight of St. John’s University looms in the distance, and the nearby Cunningham Park offers a glimpse of greenery amid the urban landscape. Maddie stirs. Confusion clouds her features, her eyes blinking away the remnants of sleep and the aftertaste of pink Chablis.

“Hey… I thought we’d agreed to go to your place, Professor Garraty,” she says, her voice tinged with irritation. “Don’t you want to stick to our movie-and-date night plans?”

“I do,” I reply, striving for calm, “but you’re tired. No, exhausted. You fell asleep in the car no more than 10 minutes after we got out of the zoo that’s JFK traffic.”

“Well, that means I got some rest, doesn’t it?” Maddie counters, her stubbornness surfacing.

“Maybe you got some rest,” I concede, “but I still think it’s a good idea to get you home now. We can watch The English Patient tomorrow night. It’s my DVD; I don’t have to return it to Blockbuster or anything, you know.”

Maddie’s eyes narrow, her tone sharpening with a mix of anger and hurt. “Goddammit! I told you I wanted to be with you tonight, and I meant it. I still do. Do I look so shitty from an 11-hour flight that you don’t want to sleep with me? I flew all the way over the Atlantic, and the time isn’t RIGHT for you? If it were somebody else instead of me—”

My heart clenches at her words, the traffic around us fading into insignificance. This isn’t just about a movie night; it’s about our moment, the one we’ve both been waiting for. And yet, I can’t shake off the concern for her well-being, even if it means delaying what we both desire.

Maddie’s eyes narrow, her tone sharpening with a mix of anger and hurt. “Goddammit! I told you I wanted to be with you tonight, and I meant it. I still do. Do I look so shitty from an 11-hour flight that you don’t want to sleep with me? I flew all the way over the Atlantic, and the time isn’t RIGHT for you? If it were somebody else instead of me—”

Reunion: Coda

“Hey, Sweets, be reasonable, okay?” I say quietly. “And no, you don’t look ‘shitty.’ But you are exhausted, and I want you to be safe, rested, and, um, energetic for our night together. I want nothing more in this world than to be with you. I love you.”

Maddie’s expression softens, the edges of her frustration melting away. She knows I’m right, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Her body language relaxes, and she leans back into the seat, conceding without words.

“Okay,” she finally murmurs, “maybe you have a point. But you’re staying over, right? Even if we’re not… you know. You’ll stay?”

I nod, relieved and grateful for the middle ground. “Of course, I’ll stay. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The mood lightens as I reach for the radio, tuning into WCBS-FM, the classic hits station that’s become a staple on New York dials. As the familiar strains of Jack Jones’ cover of “All the Things You Are” fill the car, a sense of calm seems to wash over us, smoothing the edges of our earlier tension.