Runaway Lovers
We were in yet another dingy hotel room barely fit for the cockroaches, owning only whatever we could transport in the old beat-up station wagon. But at least we still had each other. I sighed with a saddened weariness as I noted the lone bed, large enough for us both but clearly about as old as the well-trampled carpet. The once-white walls were definitely stained with decades of dirt, smoke, the unblinking glare of sunlight, and — I guessed — dried streaks of well-aged semen. The table by...