Don’t touch me!
The disgusting presence in his pants was still straining.
“Honey?” a timid, hopeful voice reached Bob.
“I’m okay.” He said. Realizing how weak it sounded.
She was crying a bit, but she was still holding his kneeling, hunched-over form. “Bob, what happened? Should I take you to a doctor? I’m calling an ambulance!”
“No!” His voice bordered on panic. “No. I just got sick. Bad peppers maybe.” He was running out of composure. “Go back inside, I’ll be right there. I just need a minute.” The smell of vomit was lingering in his mouth and from beneath him on the grass, but he could not stand up yet. Not yet.
“I don’t think I should…”
“Brenda!”
Bitch! Do what I tell you!
“Brenda… go tell the kids that I’m okay. David looked scared.”
Stupid cow!
She slowly rose, her hands still on him.
And stop touching me when I’m puking!
“I’ll be right back, Bob, I’m just going to go tell the kids you’ll be all right. I’ll be right back!”
Go!
He heard her retreating steps, and she was saying something to some other people, one with a Hispanic accent. Bob vaguely noted that someone from the restaurant had made it all the way to the door and had been watching from the safe distance of the doorway. A small, concerned crowd was gaping through the windows. The embarrassing pressure in his pants was easing. To his surprise, he heard in a trembling voice, “Sir, are you all right? We know first aid. Can we help?”
Looking up, Bob saw a girl. He had to look up past her chest to see a concerned face, pure and unblemished, ringed by frosted blond hair.
NO!
A part of him stirred, and he said viciously, “Go away! Go very, very far away!”
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.