“MANAGER! I want to see your manager! This place sells garbage!” They turn and broadcast the proclamation to anyone within earshot. Looking up from the return, Simon sees lips curled in a sneer and teeth smeared with lipstick. It's obvious the item is broken and they want a full refund. The low register of the voice is either excess testosterone or a pack of Marlboro's a day, Simon isn't sure. To say a real bitch is getting ready to return something does the slander disservice. This one is yours Si.” Jaz only takes the easy ones. Simon perfects the art of turning the cheek like a painter protects his stroke, his face frozen in an expression between apathy and aloofness. It's ironic, he is that all day to Jaz, to the angry customers, to everyone really. Simon wants to love her in the way a violent man loves a victim. It's her job to be so sickeningly sweet, you can cut her words like birthday cake. You'll be back!" Jasmine is a dark-maned princess with high cheekbones and sparkling hazel eyes, the alpha to his omega. “Who is it today? Iron Man, the Terminator. His ruminating dread is interrupted as he reaches for an energy drink. Fingers jab at him like angry surrogates for weapons. The eye roll when he refuses to refund the shipping is mild. Mega Mart is wasting their time and money. He stands stone-faced and apologizes all day. He travels back to the service desk, he's the punching bag for angry customers. Since his nagging girlfriend left he just waits for his boss to say something before he chops the hair and tames the dog tail living on his chin. He quit caring what people think about his appearance years ago. Shaving is just something to do when the hair becomes itchy and bothersome. He can't hide his poverty as he churns down the road to the Mega Mart. If he knew this is where he would be at his age, he would have tried harder in school. The brown spots are growing, and the gray is encroaching in the follicles. Simon turns his head back and forth in front of the mirror. One catches it in the narrowing of eyes and the tendency to look away from his neck hair and moles. The ones with manicured nails and jewelry are particularly pointed. Twenty pounds that Simon gained leading up to the holidays causes the space between the buttons on the shirt to pull apart slightly, not enough for his belly hair to peek out, but enough to draw derision from properly dressed patrons. They end with a crash, a stumbling fit of distress, like a wine glass striking a stone. Reaching all the places comes with a little discomfort these days. The washrag scratches at the dead skin and dry patches. He pumps out a glob of shampoo to cleanse the natural oil from his hair, oil from some unknown heritage. Hanging a clean pair of underwear on the towel rack is the ritual that precedes adjusting the water from the bath faucet to just the right temperature. Dribblets trickle from the side of his mouth as he swallows, splashing off the hair on his chest, causing odd sensations.įlipping on his slip-ons, the shower is beckoning. Sitting up, Simon gulps the water into his dry stinking gullet. The cell phone is across the room plugged in on the dresser, its intermittent wailing, grinds up the sloshy thoughts in his brain. The dull ache emanating from where his skull is fused to his spine causes him to fumble for the water bottle on the nightstand. The alarm on his iPhone grates and pulses.
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