That day we reached Elysium’s front doors. Randall makes crude remarks to a waitress on the terrace.
Two burly men in black, tight-fitting tuxedos root themselves in front of us. Their solidity is immutable and we go no further.
I snatch one dismal glance past a rock-like shoulder. A young woman tilting her head back to laugh. Succulent light glosses her silk dress. Nothing more.
As we trudge back to our campsite, suddenly weariness floods out of my heart, like blood. It is a jumbling torrent and I almost crumple onto the dirt track.
But man, that waitress, Randall whistles.