Work Text:
6 a.m., the bed is cold. She’s gone, left her slip folded on the arm of the chair, forgot to take her makeup with her—it’s still on his dresser, a smudge of lipstick on the mirror.
She’ll be back.
He’s still paying her.
She’s his, in all senses of the word. There must be other men—other clients—but there can’t be many; they all know she belongs to him. No one this side of London would dare take from Alfie Solomons what is his.
6 p.m., the bed will be warm, flush and sensual. They’ll move from the bed to the bathroom and reprise their song, just in time for act two. He’s read the script, knows his lines, knows when to keep quiet and when to improvise a riff: Lottie, Lottie, Lottie—
But it’s 6 a.m., the bed is cold, and Alfie is alone.