Tuesday, 10 July 2012

Sofitel Gatwick by Andrew McCallum Crawford - published on McStorytellers

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.

There 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 something better.

You can read the complete version of Sofitel Gatwick on McStorytellers.

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