He opens the door, and the wind blows in a bucketful of rain as he flops into the seat.
She doesn't look at him. She's too angry. She's frightened of what she might say.
He pants, and she can see in her peripheral vision that he's staring straight ahead through the rain-battered windscreen.
"They're full," he says eventually.
She can't help herself. "I told you to reserve."
It is barely a whisper, but it is laden with fury.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"You don't sound very sorry."
He doesn't reply. He turns the key and the car starts.
"We'll find something," he said.
"Some romantic getaway this is," she said. "We should have stayed home."
He doesn't say anything. He pulls into the traffic and they drive on. The lights of a motel, a horrible chain, comes into view.
Don't you fucking dare! she thinks.
He drives past. "There's a town up ahead," he says. "We'll find something."
...
