Northport, Alabama

The smokes were hers, the lighter his, the key theirs, the hour nothing. Outside, the strange tongues rose and fell, a gossamer crescendo echoing their dark tangle. Slowly, he raked his bourbon eyes across her sloe gin lips.

There were words to be said, but they’d come later, glowing embers in the stillness of the suddenly too-chilled room. Later, she’d sit cross-legged in bed facing him, inhaling sharply as they washed down bhut jolokia peppers (filched from the Indian bellhop) with swigs of cold raki.

But for now there were acquaintances and reacquaintances to be made, topographies to chart, promises to keep. The war raged — outside these walls, inside his head, throughout her body — but for the moment at least, the rifles lay silent.

Borrowed time, stolen respite perhaps, but welcome just the same.

Music: The Gates of Istanbul by Loreena McKennitt