Siesta

With Rosa, it was Spanish (clearly) and, whilst it was reasonably civil, it was definitely war.

Rosa came with the house. The house that I had rented. The house that I had rented because it would give me the peace and quiet that I needed to finish the never-ending book. But "peace" and "quiet" were not part of Rosa's vocabulary. Actually, Rosa's English vocabulary was as non-existent as my Spanish. But she managed to express her displeasure at just about everything that I did using her fluent non-verbal communication skills. She would roll her eyes at my piles of papers and sigh, theatrically, at the state in which I had left the kitchen. Or the patio. Or my room.

But, each afternoon, after she had clattered away the lunch things, she would bring two glasses of sherry which we would solemnly drink together in silence. Thereupon she would close the shutters and we would each retire to our own rooms for the duration of the siesta. Our truce.