Sheila and Sara

“What’s the closest you come to dying, boy?” There was a trickle of something warm running down Gary’s neck from where the point of the knife was pressing into his skin.  He hoped it was only sweat. “Right about now, I think,” Gary said with a shaky laugh. The scary grin widened.  “You look it.  Pretty boy, ain’t ya?  You got a woman?” “Not for much longer.” “‘Cause she’s leaving, or ‘cause you’re fixing to die?” “She’s fixing to die.  It’s why I’m here.” “What for?  You want me to kill you so you don’t have to see her go?”

“I ain’t working with him until I can get a good look in his eyes.” Gary shrugged.  “Put me in a staring contest, if you want to.” Bobby--Gary wouldn’t call him ‘Moondog’--walked over and leaned down until the smell of alcohol from his breath overwhelmed the cigarette haze around them.  His watery blue eyes fixed Gary with an unblinking glare.  Gary didn’t see Bobby’s hands move until a moment before the back of his head was gripped with one hand and a knife held against his throat with the other. “You blinked,” he said with a yellowed grin.

He took another swig of bourbon and banged the glass on the table.  The wooden chair creaked as he leaned back and took a drag on his cigarette.  He breathed the smoke out in a long exhale that resembled a sigh.  He scratched the stubble on his gaunt face for a moment and ran a hand through his greying hair. “Thing of it is,” he said, “sooner or later I wind up doing something stupid just to keep things interesting.  Might as well do it deliberately for once.  Things are getting dull around here and I’m getting twitchy.  I’m in.”