He’s shouting at her, as she stares blankly at the rope in her hands.
“Lasso the bollard, woman. Like I showed you.”
She closes her eyes and throws – to a sarcastic cheer.
Tying the rope off, she steps off the boat onto the lockside, encouraged that she can remember which buttons to press.
“Get back on board, cretin,” he shouts, as the lock begins to empty. “Untie your rope.”
Sod off, she thinks, walking away.
Glancing over her shoulder at the cruiser now dangling vertically from its bow in the lock, she concludes, with satisfaction, that the relationship may now have grounded.
I’m not sure whether you need to know about boating to understand this; I hope not. We’re back on the water now and heading upstream as I write, under cloudless blue skies with a chilly wind whipping across the river. Thanks to Rochelle the captain of the Friday Fictioneers ship for her continued selfless service.