Lightning speared through the worn blinds of the Motel Voyager. Tom Stiles fastened his Jaeger-LeCoultre around his wrist, his face pulsing between light and dark. Rain plunged down outside.
“Natasha, summer’s over,” Tom said, without turning from the storm outside.
“I’m glad; I hate the heat.”
Tom looked over the grey-brown carpet and followed the trail of hat, dress, bra, and stockings to the bed. She lay beneath the sheets with her arm stroking the pillow which still retained the impression of his head.
“It means I have to go now.”
Natasha turned to the bedside table, unclipped a cigarette from her diamond-studded cigarette case and lit it. “So, I was just your seasonal lover, is that it?”
“You are more than that, Tash, but we knew this day was coming.”
“Save me the, ‘it’s not yo
