He pulls back the curtain. It is a room with a view. Lights are stacked in the sky. He watches them descend slowly till he can make out the wings and the wheels. The silence has him wondering. He puts a hand to the glass. A slight vibration. Periodic, after each aeroplane disappears behind the terminal.
He imagines the sound of tapping.
He lets the curtain fall.
it is again. Tapping, but more urgent this time; knocking. He tells
himself it is a dream, but when he opens the door she is there, in a
bright yellow ski jacket zipped up to her chin. Her eyes meet his then
flick down to his shoulders, his legs, his shoulders again, his feet,
his neck. Anywhere but his face. Her expression. Her lack of expression,
as if she doesn’t like what she sees, as if she’d been expecting
You can read the complete version of Sofitel Gatwick on McStorytellers.