The Dark Hours

The night was hot. That sweaty heat that reminded her of Grandma's old pressure cooker rattling on the stove top. If somebody didn't do something soon the lid was gonna blow.

"For Christ's sake open a goddamn window!" Lyubov snapped.

She glanced at Antonin, the only guy tall enough to reach the fanlight. When her meaning sank in, he got up and flipped the pane open. The narrow blast of cold air that entered was like a shot of soda to the back of her throat.

God, how she longed to be back on the beach.

Would morning never come?