Another Saturday without the kids. It was cold and raining outside, so rather than rush from the car to an annoying succession of junk stores, the wife had given him a dutiful dose of bland morning sex and dragged him to the mall. The mall was a little less fatiguing sometimes, because it had a Cookie Hut and the store with the expensive electronic toys. After forty-five minutes in Macy’s, Brenda finally acknowledged the reeking boredom on Bob’s face. He stood with bags from Yankee Candle and Bath and Body Works drooping in the one hand.
“Honey…” No response from Bob. “Honey?”
“Hmm? What?”
What now?
Brenda started to reach out to take the bags from him but then changed her mind and decided that he could roam free, but he had to carry the heavy candle and healing hands lotion. “Go,” she announced with a wave of her hand. To her own surprise, her voice held little irritation.
“What?”
“Go. Shoo. Wander.” Her fingers brushed at him. “Get out of here. You’re driving me crazy,” she lied. “I’ll call you when I’m done shopping. Make sure your phone is on.”
Now Bob was walking alone in the mall, looking at the people and thinking about stopping for a Guinness at the faux British pub near the food court. It was cold today, so most of the young women were wearing jackets or coats, and it made it blissfully easy to dismiss the haunting, firm young flesh that occupied his thoughts. Bob was glad that the weather had forced all these young sluts to cover up.
A tall red-haired woman wearing a tight minidress came breezing out of one of those lingerie stores. She was not wearing a coat, and her body and hair bounced as she sashayed, moving toward Bob. As she got closer, he saw deep gashes on her face, and a red line shimmering across her neck, releasing blood down her plunging neckline. The skin and muscles along her left cheek peeled down and plopped wetly to the floor.
Bob stopped and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and calmly. He smelled the rush of blood as the woman’s high heels clicked louder and louder toward him, beside him, and then the noise trailed away, fading into the crowd.
He opened his eyes slowly, still facing the store the red-haired woman had come from. Bob saw a plump brunette woman whose breasts had been sliced off standing in the window. She was holding up a black and pink lace brassiere in one hand, and a skimpy orange one in the other hand, comparing the two. Her blood stained the front of her shirt, dripping between her feet as she considered the price tags.
Bob’s throat tightened. He turned slowly away and resumed walking. He was careful not to step in the bloody footprints left by the red-haired harlot.
A few minutes later, Bob felt normal again. He was in control. Again.
Bob continued to window shop without any real destination. He dismissed the cigar shop, blew past the cell phone kiosk and the puppies, and he did not even notice the model train store. He slowed as he approached a shop with electric razors in the window display. Thinking about his old Remington electric, he went in to see if they sold blades for his old model.
The store was filled with red velvet display cases glimmering full of silvered blades. Razors, scissors, and electric shavers were prominent as well, but the vertical display cases with the hundreds of exquisite knives captured his imagination. Along with half a dozen other men, Bob walked along the displays, admiring the seemingly endless assortment of stainless steel. There were entire cases of straight-bladed hunting and fishing knives, military fighting knives, diver’s knives, and replica daggers. As he ogled the fine craftsmanship, he came upon the folding knives. His pulse quickened slightly when he saw an assortment of small, razor-sharp knives with unusual blades. Some were partially serrated, and others were so straight that light sang across the edges as he moved by. The blades were small and extremely thin, even when folded up. Most of the men were window shopping the larger knives, but Bob was transfixed at this case of small, efficient blades that folded into your pocket.
Hello there!
It was nestled in red velvet beside a knife touted as a special police design. The blade was less than three inches long, and it was serrated almost all the way to the tip. It hooked at the end like a talon. The special description indicated that it was designed for use by sailors to cut rope at arm’s length, and the beak-like tip provided leverage on moving targets. The blade had a small hole where you were meant to place your thumb knuckle so the blade could be opened one-handed. The knife was named the Harpy.
Well, well.
Suddenly sweating and short of breath, Bob gladly paid one hundred twenty dollars and quietly returned to the traffic of the mall.
He was entirely too old to be in this bar, and he knew it. The wife and kids were out of town visiting family, and he was stuck working the weekend.
Hope Sonya isn’t driving Brenda crazy.
The majority of the clientele was from the college down the road. He knew the place well by now and knew that he could charm young college women with his quiet confidence and willingness to buy them drinks without asking the waitress how much they cost. Bob would sit and pretend to listen to them as their blood dripped off their pretty, mutilated faces onto the little umbrellas that sat in their fruity drinks.
It was crowded tonight, and Bob was at the bar, holding his overcoat in his lap because there was no safe place to drape a coat. It occurred to him that there were no less than a dozen guys his age sitting at tables by themselves, leering at the young girls.
Losers.
He fidgeted with the buttons on the overcoat and noted that Brenda had tightened up the loose button.
Wow, that was nice of her.
After a while, a woman sat next to Bob. She was almost his age, also too old for this place, with overdone blonde hair and a tight red dress that exposed a lot of hanging cleavage. Her skin was weathered, showing years spent in the sun. She ordered a drink and did not immediately pay for it. As she raised the glass, she cast a sidelong, dirty glance at Bob, then she drained the gin and tonic.
Bob motioned the bartender to bring her another one.
Roxanne was the name she gave, and she was not as loud as the younger girls. Her voice was husky, and she smoked. Bob hated cigarettes and women who smoked them. In fact, he didn’t like her at all. She sat there in the tight red dress, with her rough tanned skin, long legs, and her slightly overdone eye makeup looking at him like she was interested. She smelled of sickly sweet perfume and cigarette smoke. Bob did not have to look away, or close his eyes, or suppress any urges from under his folded overcoat as long as he focused on her.
They talked for a time, and Bob gave her his attention without listening. He did not allow himself to be distracted by the firm and blood-soaked bodies of the sorority girls on the dance floor. After her third drink, she leaned in close to make sure he heard her. “Honey, don’t take this personally, but you should know that I have bills to pay. We can take this party somewhere private, but it will cost you. I hope that doesn’t spoil the mood.”
A distant feeling of familiarity threatened Bob’s composure, but he remained calm. He ignored the blood that was now slowly dripping from the gash where Roxanne’s nose should be, and gazing into her mutilated eye sockets said, “No, not at all. In fact, I think you just said the magic words, Love.”
Standing in the bathroom, Bob washed the blood from his hands. The small apartment stank of stale smoke and fried foods. There was a litter box in the kitchen that stank, too. He dabbed at the sleeves of the overcoat, but there did not seem to be any blood on the wool. In fact, looking in the mirror, he was remarkably clean considering the past hour’s activities. He was certain that some blood had sprayed across the sleeve, but looking at it now, it was dry and soft with no trace of blood. He finished washing off the knife, grateful for the ingenious design that prevented it from holding water in any crevices.