Relief

They checked in separately.

They were far enough from home for it not to matter, but old habits... Their routine had become somewhat calcified.

She stepped into the ancient, creaking lift with her tattered old bag and pushed the button for the third floor. As it whirred into action, she rummaged for a mirror in her handbag, reapplied her lipstick and pinched her wan cheeks into life. Using her wall-length sepia reflection, she bolstered her chest back into position and smoothed her skirt over ageing hips. Her heels were too high, her make-up too garish, her hair too youthful. She ran her tongue over her teeth, hitched on her smile and teetered out of the elevator.

As she followed the numbered arrows screwed onto dated flock wallpaper, her mind settled briefly on the question of her presence here, now. Was it really just habit? Had it become a necessity? What had happened to the urgency? Why did she feel she was carrying out a chore?

She swiped the key-card through its reader and the light switched from red to green. Fleetingly, she remembered the days of big metal keys and over-sized fobs. Patting her hair one last time, she pushed open the door and, with a bounce she didn't feel, trotted chirpily into the bedroom.

He had been there. The bed was crumpled, the window open, the complimentary bottle of water open.

On the pillow was a note, scrawled in pencil on hotel stationery:

"Sorry love. Can't do this any more. It's been fun."

And in the place of a signature:

"We'll always have Bognor...."