The window shutters were open, but there was no moonlight coming in. Occasionally some car lights would urge the items on the shelves to cast shadows on the wall.
As his eyes got used to this dim countryside night light, he stretched his hand and grasped the correspondence paper and a pencil from the bedside table. He wrote without the need to see what he was writing:
"I'm lying here, in this motel. The bed is for two, but you are not here to share it with me. The years and years of use has made two hollows in each side of the bed. But now, one of them is empty and cold. But if I touch that side and try hard, I can feel a warmth. Your warmth.
I am wearing the shirt you gave me for our anniversary. It's smooth touch upon my skin reminds me of your silky fingers caressing my body. It makes me feel closer to you. When will this journey ever end?"
He stood up. He took off his shirt. No car was passing then, he worked his way in the dark.
After a minute or so, a car passed. Its lights cast shadows on wall in the motel room. A swaying body, hanging from the ceiling. He had hanged his shirt from the ceiling, tied the sleeves into a strong knot and died - as he imagined - in the arms of the one he once loved, her hands caressing his neck.