Rain sloshed around his feet. But he kept his guard up, as he moved stealthily around the corners, up the flooded pathway and stepped into the building. There was a clock. A red one, with all the trimmings. He glanced upwards.
Thunder struck, and the city disappeared. Tom awoke with a start. Pulling his covers around him, he snuggled warmly into the bed. Somehow, the room seemed to reek, smelling of tobacco and...pizza crusts. Something scurried by, knocking over the bottle of vodka he had set on the floor. Tom swore. But he didn't attempt to get up to set the bottle back upright. He'd let the rat drink all it wanted and he'd find it and kill it in the morning. He slept.
Nine thousand miles away, it was not raining. No, it was sunny. The french riviera had been kept dry by the atlantic currents which drove the clouds south, giving Amy something to think about. She lay back against the grass, and pictured a camera in her hands. She world snap pictures, encasing the moment in digital colour. Never had an electronic device been so captivating. Besides, the moment would probably be one of the better moments of her life; beside her, Phil lay with his hand across his chest, snoring. The faded colours of that reebok shirt never looked better on anyone else. She smilled to herself, flipped her scarlet locks back, and watched the sun.
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