“What were you thinking, Sam, when you chose this place for our second honeymoon?” Cecelia asked her husband of 25 years. “It’s rained every day since we arrived and, according to my weather app, it’s supposed to rain pretty much the rest of our trip. Why Fucko Island, of all the places we could have gone?”

“It’s Fogo Island, Cecelia, not Fucko Island,” Sam said.

“Oh, Forego Island.”

“Fogo,” not Fucko or Forego.”

“It’s June, Sam, and the highs are in the upper 40s, so it’s both wet and cold,” Cecelia said. “What would make you think I’d like it here? This hotel is held up by pick-up sticks, for crissake.”

“There’s a lot to do and to see,” Sam defensively said. “It’s historic. There are hiking trails, interesting wildlife, good restaurants, and museums.”

“Speaking of museums, I noticed that one of the museums on this island is the Museum of the Flat Earth,” Cecelia said. “I know you’re a flat-earther. Is that why you wanted to come to this godforsaken place? So you could meet with like-minded lunatics who share your hallucination that the earth is flat?”

“Well, Cecelia,” Sam said, “we can go the museum tomorrow. They can make a very compelling case that the Earth is flat. You might actually learn something.”

Cecelia stood up, pulled her suitcase out of the closet, threw it on the bed, and started throwing clothes into it. “What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“I’m packing. I am flying back home tomorrow. I hate this place and I hate you.“

“You might as well unpack, Cecelia,” Sam said, and come with me to the museum tomorrow. The next international flight from Fogo Island isn’t until Saturday.

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Written for Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge. Photo credit: Erik Mclean on Pexels.