ghostly thread, a connection that formed spontaneously, on a cold morning about six months ago, when John stopped at a roadside diner to get breakfast.

a touch of eyes. and that's it. it was enough for Price to come back in the evening, to wait until their shift was over. for them, too, it was enough to now, six months later, get used to everything.

to the status of a lover, to the dark-blue walls of a small loft, to the smell of John’s wife's perfume on his shirts.

it was worth admitting at least to themselves: when they caught this smell, because the clothes were in the closet with her clothes for too long, they dreamed until they shook, so that she would smell them too on his shirts, skin, hair.

this desire didn’t come from the desire to destroy the marriage, but from the desire to be, too, firmly a part of John Price.

John wasn’t tormented by pangs of conscience, made no promises, but he knew that he would rather kill than let go or leave them.

He couldn’t say exactly what this mad zeal to be near consisted of, considering that it wasn’t an outlet, wasn’t a carnal amusement, and yet the thought became unbearable as soon as "they" disappeared from it.

A trap, no other way.

John calmly watched, through the thick but dissipating clouds of smoke from his cigar, them sitting on the windowsill, their sharp bent knees, the cigarette in their hand, their gaze directed at the night street of a small town near London.

He lay on the bed, with his hand behind his head and the calm ice of the oceans in his eyes, with quiet, barely noticeable hums with each breath.

and watched.