Nathan unravels his silk black tie, exhales a steady, cigar huff of a breath, and takes another swing at the Windsor knot. “Who named it the Windsor,” he says aloud to no one in particular, “Because he sure got the sore part right.”

Nathan’s caught himself doing this recently – quipping to himself. A weird tick he must have picked up during that miserable quest for El Dorado.

“I wonder how Elena’s doing,” Nate shouts. The statement echoes in the room, amplifying as it were trying to maintain a conversation with itself. It was on that same quest he had met the perfectly highlighted nymphomaniac. A magnesium hot fling for two weeks gone, and they haven’t since spoken.

Nate opens a tattered satchel, his travel bag, and pulls out three bubble wrapped containers of rubber cement.

With his thumb, he pops each bottle open, then uses his index and middle fingers to collect globules that he hurriedly applies under the belt area of his ¾ quarter tucked thermal shirt.

For Elena, the shirt’s tuck was a point of contention. He thought it a distinguishable fashions statement; she found it an insurmountable sexual obstacle.

“I better check the weather,” yells Nate, awkwardly changing topic with himself when comes a, “Quiet down in there,” from the raspy androgynous voice in the room one over. “Motel’s the only time I can watch my HBO.”

The laptop in the corner glows, illuminating a torn painting of Jesus’s visage preaching over the hilly plains in what looks like Oklahoma pre-industrial revolution. How’d he wind up living out of a Motel? “Oh yeah, the weather.”

Stealing wireless from the café/diner next door’s tricky: he must balance the computer on the Bible atop the Yellow Pages above the bookshelf next to the front door. Right alongside the vent. Ping – it’s a low signal, but this will have to do.

Nathan turns on Firefox. He checks the weather (warm with a chance of drizzle). He checks his Gmail (need to pay that credit card bill). He checks Facebook (Elena has an update).

“Elena has an update!”

“Quite, I said!”

Over the voice of that raspy he-she, Nate hears his conscience, a chorus of his friends and family. “Don’t check Elena’s Facebook page,”  they say from the backest part of his head. “Defriend her.”

Click. Elena’s page loads. A status update. She’s boiling green tea and didn’t like last night’s Mad Men. And a new photo album. Click. Click. Click.

He whisper to himself, “Good, she’s not with any intimidating men.”

Her profile, it too has changed. She likes 30 Rock, now. And old school Foo Fighters. She’s still single.

Nathan considers masturbating to pictures from the album “My Trip to Bermuda.”

“That would be creepy,” he groans. “And I’ve already glued down my shirt.”

Look at the time. Nathan has to leave in a half hour. He has a date with that new girl.  Chloe what’s her name. Harry Flynn introduced them. She’s his type, Nate thinks.

Back on the screen. Click. Now, Elena stands next to a hunky man in Bermuda. He stands a foot taller than her. His face his strong, mature. Much more mature than Nate’s. The man wears a nice jacket. Cuff links. Fully untucked button-up. And a perfect Windsor knot. She looks happy.

A hundred miles away, hours later Elena Fisher logs in to Facebook.
Nathan Drake is… going out tonight.