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PPC X ROMANTIX | Episode Two

CHERRY ANDERSON

"So... you got any family?"

The snake huddled in the corner of the toilet stall hisses at me once more.

"No personal questions! Got it..." I whimper, burying my head between my knees in defeat.

I've folded myself as snug as I can into the corner of the bathroom on top of the sink like a princess, waiting for someone with a bigger, sharper mop to come rescue me.

But no one's coming. I'm gonna die here. Forever trapped. Just me and Bernie the black snake.

In a year, they'll find my crumbling bones in the fetus position right where I'm sitting. My decaying miniskirt and crumbling stilettos blowing away in the breeze of the open window.

I might as well call Ollie, tell him I love him and enjoy my last meal of Claire's cupcake flavored lip balm that's dangling from my charm bracelet.

I'll die with plump, glossy lips.

Koi would be proud.

"Are you Miss Anderson?"

"Jesus fucking Christ!" I tense, snapping my head up and twisting my body to pin my back to the tile walls of the bathroom.

I flinch at the suited man standing across the room near the door, like a ghost, hands behind his back, deep green eyes boring into me.

I press a hand to my chest, "U-Uhm... Yeah? Who... are you?"

"Help." The man delicately says, english accent slow and rolling off of his tongue.

"Help for me? I..." I lose my train of thought for a second when I see the tattoos creeping up his neck that look familiar. His facial features are way too specific to ever be forgotten; a sharp nose and cheekbones, lips etched and outlined just the same, looking like they've been carved. I'd remember him.

But the shaded tree roots bridging up behind his ear-- I've seen a tattoo like that. And I remember thinking it was beautiful.

He's beautiful too. He reminds me of Harlow, if Harlow were ten years older, ten shades paler, ten times creepier, a few inches taller, from eastern Europe, and... a descendant of some sort of royalty.

Which would be a disaster. If Harlow was running a country or province, the national anthem would be a remix of Hit me Baby one more time by Britney Spears and Custer by Slipknot. He'd have the national guard in pink thongs. 'In pussy we trust.' Dork.

I snap out of my thoughts, "Who let you in here? When did you get in here? I didn't hear you."

The man stalks farther into the bathroom and I lean away in caution.

"Hello? I'm talking to you. Get out. This is a private... conversation."

He cranes his head around the corner expectantly and when he sees the snake balled up, he heads right for it.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! You can't just do that! It could be poisonous! Dude!" I hold my mop at the ready and debate poking him with it to keep him back.

He walks up to the snake and my eyes pop out of my head when he grabs it like a discarded frisbee and examines it.

The snake hisses in his face and I scream and cover my eyes, barely able to watch through the slivers between my fingers.

Holding it by the head, the man winds the snake's thick body around his arm like an accessory and then picks up my discarded 'boobies' bracelet from Harlow that I'd thrown at it twenty minutes earlier.