By Connor Greenaway

The frayed afterglow of neon lights permeated through cheap drapes, diffusing colourful ambience into the gloomy motel room.

“What are you doing”? Karen asked, the red bead of her lit cigarette steady between her fingers.

“You know why I’m here,” Dan said, face fixed in a whiskey-leer that had become all too familiar.

She eyed him with a steely expression, not allowing her contempt overwhelm the situation. “I think I do,” she said. “You should leave.”

Dan’s face twisted. “Tease!” he spat viciously, and with the smile of a person whose careless enemy has undone themselves, Karen slammed the door.


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