The sounds of traffic rise through the cool air and enter
over the balcony. Light winds its way around the pulled shades and spills over
the white walls of the hotel room. It barely makes the bed, and by the time it
finds the bathroom it is all but spent.
A man lies naked on a massive bed,
sheets tussled, pillows strewn. He is on his back with his mouth shut and his
eyes open. His breathing is slow and strong and he can still smell her in the
air, on the sheets. There’s even a hint of her scent on his face.
If he closes his eyes, the shape of
her body, every curve and spike, floods from his memory and paints itself on
the back of his eyelids. So he keeps them open, staring at the soft ceiling and
listening intently to the sounds of traffic far below.
