"A convenience store run should not be this nerve-racking," he thinks, fingers
tapping rhythmically on his own knee, "but she does scare me. I still don't understand
why I keep coming back. It's not like it's the only store around."
The bus stops, snapping him out of his thoughts as the abrupt halt propels him forward, then
back into his seat again with a small thump.
"They need to fix these damn streets already..."
Five minutes later, the bus stops again, and this time he stumbles out instead of rocking
back and forth inside the stupid thing. He could swear it makes his back pain even worse.
He tries to recall how many other passengers there were besides him, a mental exercise to
test his own awareness amidst the nervousness, but he comes up empty.
The store is just across the street. The fading streetlight switches to green, and as he
crosses alongside a small crowd, he can't help but think of zombies, mindlessly herding about.
A man bumps into him. He doesn't say sorry, neither does he. All he does is grunt a little.
"Totally a zombie," he thinks to himself.
After dragging his feet across the street, he drags them across the deserted parking lot as well,
noticing the discarded cigarette butts that seem to line its perimeters. As he approaches the front
doors, he wonders if she smokes.
He wipes his clammy hands on his sleeves as the automatic doors open with a chime. "Ridiculous."
The small, familiar jingle draws the attention of the cashier, a young woman with messy, limp hair
bundled into a low ponytail, two loose strands framing her pale, tired-looking face.
"Welcome," she greets in a light, cheery voice that she never uses with anybody else.
Well, nobody that he knows of.
Averting his eyes as he walks by, and failing to greet her back, a pleasant tingle runs through him.
He can't help but feel slightly special. She's staring at him again, he notices, her piercing gaze
sends shivers up his spine and makes the tips of his ears warm in self-consciousness.
He wanders the aisles for a bit, having completely forgotten what he came for the second he stepped
inside and heard her voice. He grabs a couple snacks at random.
As he walks up to the register, the pressure of his heartbeat on the inside of his skull becomes
almost unbearable, a headache in the making.
"Will that be all?", she asks, looking him right in the eye. There's no one else here. Just the two
of them.
The way she smiles at him is different from the other customers, he's sure of it. Looser. Wider.
A bit lopsided.
Shrinking into himself, he nods. He stares at her lips - chapped, cracked lips stretched into a wide
grin reserved for only him. Only him.
It all made him feel so giddy, like a man who just won the lottery; her greeting, her smile,
the way she'd openly gawk at him as he stepped, unsure, through the aisles, and how she'd sneak up
behind him to help him find items sometimes, making him gasp - it always felt like she was just two
seconds away from whistling at him and calling him "sweetheart".
On a rational level, he's aware that she's a bit of a creep. The way she'd drag out her words when
talking to him, how she'd always find some excuse to touch him, light hands hovering over his body,
teasing but not quite there, suggestive comments thrown his way and dismissed much too quick for
him to react properly... Yes, she's a creep, and she makes him uncomfortable. Self-conscious.
At the same time, however, the embarrassment sends a pleasant shiver up his spine that's had him sat
on the bus for over twenty minutes every day since he's met her.
He stares at her, too - pale wrists meet her hands and end in long, bony fingers; the dark red of dried
blood around her fingernails impossible to miss. Fixating on her makes him feel dirty; perverted.
He can't deny he's thought of her when he's alone, too many times to count: her, shoving her long,
bloody fingers into his mouth, the digits prodding about. Her bony knuckles would bump against his lips,
then, further inside, against his teeth and palate, as she pushes his tongue around, fingers reaching
the back of his throat with a gag. He envisions his throat constricting against her fingers, warm and
wet as the bile rises, just as she pulls his hair with her free hand, hard, and forces him to
look up at her, dead eyes boring into his, that eerie, lopsided grin never leaving her face...
"Helloo-o?" two knocks on the counter snap him back into reality, and he looks at her for a split
second before averting his gaze, face burning in shame.
"S-sorry. I, uh... Card, p-please."
She hums, looking amused.
"Can't, sorry. Card reader's busted."
"Huh? W-wait, seriously? I-"
"Hey, I'm not in charge here. 's not my fault, really," she says, knocking once on the register,
which answers her with a clink and a thud. "Nothing I can do. So," she tilts her head, one hand
palm-up on the counter, "cash only."
The pressure in his skull has now evolved into a full-on headache, rapidly approaching unbearable
territory. He stares at her open palm. His mind begins drifting; an open-palm smack
across the face, telling him to pay attention - how badly would it hurt? How quickly would it bruise?
What sound would it make? If he asked her to, would she-
"R-right. Here. Uh, sorry."
He tries not to touch her when handing over the cash, but she grabs his wrist from below, fingers
slipping under his sleeve, her free hand roaming softly over his knuckles with a hum.
He's frozen in place, heart beating a mile an hour. She looks up at him from her seat behind the counter,
curiously, before asking far too innocently:
"Is something wrong?"
"Is there?", he asks himself. Is it wrong to want her to touch him more?
"I'm okay," he says, going for a smile that looks far more like a grimace.
She squints her eyes at him, fingers making their way up his arm.
"Good."