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He looked at his watch and shook his head. She wouldn't be here, it was too late now. Maybe she had to work late – maybe she just didn't want to come. "Who could blame her," he said to himself, "she's not the kind of girl who would wait forever."
She was getting impatient these days ... "You know how I feel, Andy. I wouldn't be here if I didn't love you." Then she would stare at him frankly as she stubbed out her cigarette. "But I'm not going to wait forever."
... and then he'd sit there, afraid he was going to lose her and he'd try to think of an excuse he hadn't used before ... why they should wait a little longer ... he wasn't sure he could handle the settlement ... his little girl was too young ... his wife's operation. Some excuse he hadn't used before. They'd stand facing each other like strangers then, not lovers. As though they were working on some kind of secret project together. Finally, they'd leave the motel, long before check-out time. They'd get in their separate cars and drive off in separate directions, promising to see each other again – as soon as it was possible.
He looked at his watch again .."No sense sitting here alone. I make lousy company for myself." He looked at the scented candle he had lighted on the bedside table. She hated the lysol smell of a hotel room and he was always sure to light a scented candle.
He put on his coat and hat, blew out the candle and left the room leaving the keys in the door.
The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.