Book One: The Viper's Bite

Nineteen

There was a convenience store a few blocks away from the motel, just as obscure and hollow looking as the rest of the area. Before Randy could stir, I crept out and down the street. They were dead, no cars, no bikes, nothing. It was as if everything was disappearing.

The little store boasted a few gas tanks along the side, and a sign that read 'Lotto Tickets Inside'. The door squeaked on its hinges as I pushed it in, my footsteps loud on the linoleum tiles. There was an old man behind the register, desperately squinting down at a newspaper. He looked up at me, nodding his head in greeting. I nodded back, then took the corner down an aisle with snack foods.

I grabbed up a few bottles of water, some cookies, a bag of Tostitos and salsa, a jar of peanut butter and some pretzels. The combination, to me, wasn't weird at all. I swept down the other aisles, stopping in the hygiene section. I pulled down a floss, a razor, a box of toothpaste. 

And then I saw it.

The narrow pink and blue box sat on the shelf, inconspicuous as it was surrounded by larger and better products. Products someone wouldn't be afraid to take home.

Before I thought better of it, before my judgement started to make an appearance, I grabbed it off the shelf and took them to the counter. The old man folded his newspaper and set it aside, then set himself to scan each and every item with painstaking slowness. He bagged it all for me, without a single word, and as I turned to leave, all I heard was a single, "Congratulations."

*********************

"Cory?"

I was startled from my thoughts by the gravelly voice coming from the bedroom. I unfolded myself from the position I had taken up inside of the bathtub, but I couldn't climb out fast enough. Randy appeared in the doorway, dressed only in his boxers. The air around him seemed to take on the sleepy haze that still lingered. "What's wrong?"

Instead of answering, I got out and went to the bag of toiletries on the counter. I took out the razor and motioned for him to come and stand in front of me. His expression was amused when I sat on the edge of the sink, turned on the tap and ran the blades under the cold water.

"Have you ever done this before?" I shook my head. "Do you know how to do it?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "It can't be that much more difficult than shaving my legs. Seriously, you're acting as if I'm going to slice your face to ribbons." When he didn't deny it, I felt my mouth drop open in shock, and his eyes turned apologetic.

"Sorry, but this is, y'know, the moneymaker." He made the joke remorselessly and even dared to do the stupid motion that both Miz and Mizdow did to gesture to their faces. I pressed my forehead to his chest, giggling.

"Alright, alright, go ahead." He braced himself, and I ran the blade ever so lightly down the line of his jaw. When I got a strip of stubble off, I turned a little to rinse it off, then turned back and positioned it right next to the now smooth line of skin.

I didn't notice my hand was shaking until he placed his own over it, and then took my other to cup the other side of his jaw. My grip wavered for a second, but then I refocused and started again. 

By the time I had finished - in my opinion - the room outside had started to get dark and the temperature had dropped about fifteen degrees. I pushed him back and turned on the hot water. He leaned over my shoulder to check himself out in the mirror, scrubbing his hand up and down his face.

"Not bad," I heard him say, and turned around to give him a triumphant smirk. He shot it down by saying, "Not good either. But not terrible."

"Oh whatever. Go traipsing around like a Neanderthal for all I care," I laughed, pushing him out of the way. As I stepped into the bedroom, there was a knock at the door.