The neighbouring couple

It’s Saturday evening, as I write this. 7.30pm. I’m sitting happily(-ish) in the wonderful club lounge of my fab KL hotel. The food in here’s amazing; the freshly-seared spicy scallops would grace the table of any Michelin-starred restaurant.

I’ve been chatting away with the friendly couple at the next table. Indeed, we’ve been competing to see how many times we can order ‘seconds’ (thirds, fourths…) of the scallops before the chef gets upset. The guy’s my age – perhaps a few years older; she’s thirty, give or take. And, as we’ve nattered, she’s been curled up on the plush red sofa with her head lovingly resting on his chest in a way that’s made me feel a long way from love.

About twenty minutes ago, they disappeared towards their room, him holding her hand firmly. And then, a few minutes later, he reappeared in the lounge alone to continue sipping his glass of rather-good red.

I’m writing this imagining the state in which he’s left her. He’d have stripped her, of course, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. There weren’t too many lights on in the block opposite as he did so, but enough for her to wonder; to worry…

He’d have tied her face down on the bed; wrists, ankles bound with coarse rope, tight enough to hurt; spreadeagled, a pillow under her midrift to position her buttocks perfectly for what would follow. He’d have taken the implements from his bag one-by-one, discussing their efficacy as he did. He’d have chosen one, telling her that he’d have done so – but not which he’d selected. He’d have left it on the sofa at the foot of the bed, just out of her anxious sight. And he’d have told her that when he chose to return, he would beat her so hard that she would beg him for mercy.

I can picture her now. And, just as I finish typing this, he stands and leaves the lounge…