Leaving through the gift shop, he looks up at the breakfasters on the sky-lit mezzanine. He can’t help it, still conscious of being seen with her, even now.
      Out in the street, she examines the stuccoed white Tea Rooms in their infill slot, points out the small paned windows, braces, ornamental tile inserts, art deco things he doesn’t get. She explains these things to him and he likes it.
      “That Macintosh was sure something,” she says, her heels beating a sweet tattoo on the sidewalk, her word.
      They walk back along Sauchiehall Street towards the hotel, not touching. It begins to rain and she buys an umbrella from a barrow boy, which she opens and swings dangerously. She has all that confidence, being American, is that outgoing.
      “You’re going to blind someone with that,” he says.
      It is always raining in this awful city.
      “Craven coward,” she says, lifting the umbrella higher, accepting him under it. “Where’d that one come from anyways? Weird much?”
      He shrugs. “They won’t be letting you take that brolly on the plane with you, if you go around wielding it like a weapon like that.”
      And she doesn’t smile like he wants her to.

      Back in bed, she begs him to tie her hands. He has to use the belt of his pants, her word. It’s all he has. He tries to loop it around the headboard but it won’t fasten right and he commences crying.
      “Fucking buckle,” he says, weeping now. “Fucking stupid buckle.”
      “Hush, you,” she says, and strokes his hair.

      When they make love it is her sobbing.
      “I love you, I love you. Fuck,” she whimpers, and the headboard slams hard against the wall.
      “Say my name,” he says, furious, his hand splayed, gripping her throat. “Wrap your legs around me and say my name.”
      “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
      It is sort of erotic like that for a while until they have to start up giggling.
      “That’s so not my name,” he says, and then the two of them are laughing, almost.

3

  

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