He fingered the note she’d written him.  For some reason, he’d brought it along.  He took it out, read it again, folded, unfolded, and refolded it, before placing it back, pushing her words down deep into his pocket.  What good were they, these words, to him; Nathan shook his head, now at himself.  He was married.  Shouldn’t that break any spell she’d once held over him.  He hated her.  Hated himself.  Hated that he’d booked another two nights in Tangiers.  He’d left before though, and he couldn’t bring himself to do so again, not just yet. 

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