vacation

The man impatiently tapped four fingers upon the wooden desk, simulating the steady beat of a drum. A torn and faded Jamaica 4 Days 3 Glorious Nights! poster duct-taped on the wall over his left shoulder seemingly dripped like a leaky faucet. He stopped, fished a pocket watch out of his sweaty vest, opened and over-wound it, and purposely snapped it's tarnished lid shut.
'And so, no cruises, no Icelandic bobbing, no breezing along the Champs Elysées for you, heh?
'It's just that we want something different.'
He close his eyes. 'Yes, yes, of course, as you were.'
He leaned back, and looking up saw that actually there was a dark spot on the drop ceiling from the upstairs commode.
'Something completely different.'
He looked at her. 'How about the Accountant's Hall Of Fame, in dear old Bellfontaine?' Oh, the sarcasm was in fine four-finger fashion now.
'Nope. Two summers ago. When our youngest was still living at home.'
'It's a souvenir bonanza. Pencils galore. Worth a second adventure.'
'No.'
'The Big Top Circus in Kalamazoo?'
'No, I don't believe so.'
'Nineteenth Century Magpie Sculptures of Willow Manor?'
'Oh no.'
'The Snooze Napping Museum in Rochester?'
'What?'
'A riveting display of colorful floating hammocks.' He was looking up at the ceiling splotch again. 'Riveting.'
'Yes. I believe that'll do nicely. My husband would like that.'
'Indeed.' He yawned. 'Fine.'