Vacation Sex play

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Hank Fisher sat cross-legged like a Punjab on the bed. He squinted his eyes into little slits, trying to match the slits in the venetian blinds on the window to the left of him in the hotel room. A brilliant glare of flashing neon's sparked gaudily in and out of the room like a giant, pulsing, Technicolor firefly, winking and blinking in its incessant intrusion into the privacy of the darkened room.

On and off, in and out. Each flash illuminated the room in a split second of multicolored grotesqueness. Why, thought Hank to himself, do all hotel rooms look ugly regardless of price?

In truth the room wasn't ugly. It was standard, or a cut above standard, hotel fare. Wall-to-wall carpeting was keyed to the dominant color in the chic, striped, woven drapes, drapes which Hank hadn't bothered to close. Now he quietly chided himself because he hadn't taken the time to do so. At least it would have softened the neon glare from that sign whatever it was, across the street.

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