Fade in
In the hotel, Room 301 …
Explosions and taking hostages. The television is in the corner. It adds a dull glow to the room*, the furniture, the closet at the right, opposite the armchair, a floor lamp at the side of the bed and near the window.
He draws the curtains aside with a cigarette in his hand. The fabric is yellow from smoke. The windows are wet. It is raining. Everything a watery blur. A ruffled pigeon lands on the window ledge. Water drips from grey feathers. He watches the pigeon. The pigeon watches him. Neither moves.
Pan Shot / Music starts
Barry Manilow is singing. She is lying on the bed. The radio alarm next to her is playing music softly.
Balled up in a pile in front of him on the floor, next to the bed, is her robe. It is pale pink, made from a rough terry cloth with a pattern of light red roses.**
In the room, 10:05 p.m. …
Leave. Just leave. A simple thought. Ten seconds to go. It goes on. Seven seconds to go. He opens the window, gauges the height. It could work. Five seconds to go. He walks to the other side of the room. Three seconds. He gives himself a running start. He thinks. Three storeys. That is seven meters. Seven meters aren’t enough. Cigarettes collect in the ashtray. He does not move. Life goes on.

* The hotel room is too warm.
** A mat, almost colorless yellow is her favorite color.