Sex Tourist
It's a Grey, Grey World. The hair of man turns grey with age, his soul, the vibrant colours of forest leaves before they fall ... the souls of most men do. Trevor was lonely, desolate, and the dread of an empty life after retirement caused him palpitations. The palpitations were worst, shortly after waking, on cold, grey mornings in bleak winter. Comforting cup of warming, sweet tea in hand, he stared through his kitchen window at the darkness of an early December morning. Already his navy-blue gabardine raincoat was pulled over his grey work-suit in readiness to leave. Morosely illuminated by the dull glow from street lamps, and revealed by their refracted light, flecks of snow driven by a wind from the north western Arctic gusted across the road. A car drove slowly by, its probing headlights picking out the tracks of a previous vehicle in the film of slurry formed by melting snowflakes. Lifting his foot, Trevor examined the sole of his scuffed, creased Oxford lace-ups. No holes