Short Story Saturday: Clerk

CLERK

I stare at this bitch. I'm peeving. All I wanted was five minutes to take a fucking shit. I had the sign in place. The door locked. Forty-three fucking seconds, that's what I got. Not even enough time to get my goddamn pants around my ankles. Then she blew her damn horn repeatedly and started beating the shit out of the store's door.

“That's it, break the fucking glass. What, you don't know how to read a fucking sign?” I wanted to scream it, but I managed to keep it at a mumble as I made my way to the front of the store.

I unlocked the door and ripped my 'RESTROOM. BE BACK IN 5 MINUTES' sign from it. I let the bitch in and returned to my post behind the cash register.

So, I'm standing here, staring at her. Oh, I'm sure she can tell by my face that I'm pissed.

“You can't go locking the door to a twenty-four-hour store. People got things to do,” she says, attitude spraying from her like some unwanted facial shot, but at this moment, I'd much rather be sucking someone's dick than dealing with this cunt.

It's two-fucking-thirty in the morning. What things do you need to be doing at this hour? is what I want to say. Instead what leaves my mouth is, “Hello, how may I help you?” and I try to smile the best I can.

“I need five on whatever pump that is.” She throws a twenty at me after she waves her hand toward the parking lot. It misses both my hand and the counter, then floats to the floor, and I bend down to pick it up.

“I ain't in the fucking mood, bitch.” It's a whisper, a mere breath of air, but she's heard something.

“Excuse me,” she says, accusingly.

“That's pump one. Five out of twenty.” I press the keys on the register. “Fifteen's your change.” I set the money on the counter. She didn't give me the courtesy to put the money in my hand, it's only fair I do the same. At least, I didn't throw it at her.

“My hand's right here. You need to put the money in it,” she says, and rage boils through me.

“With all due respect, Miss, I am only returning your gesture,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I'll have your fucking job! You don't get away with treating customers like this. The customer's always right, and this customer is going to let your manager know they should fire you.”

“Whatever, lady. You came in here rude from the get-go. You tell my manager whatever you wish, but it's all on video.” I point to the three separate cameras aimed in her direction. “You have a nice night.”

I turn to go about my business, and a candy rack crashes into the cigarette shelf, inches from my head. That's assault, bitch, I think it was just a thought and that I didn't say it out loud. I guess I'm just lucky this cunt's got bad aim.

I've made up my mind and turn. The bitch is heading for the door with quickening steps. I grab the rack and jump the counter. I draw my arm back, building momentum, and then slam the rack forward, bashing her skull with it. The door buzzer's dinging where she's pulled it open, but it stops as the door is pushed closed by her falling frame.

The corner of the rack put a nice sized hole in her head. There's some blood spattered across the door and on a few other things like the newspaper rack. I'll have to clean the area, but first, I glance out the door to make sure no one's out in the car or the parking lot. It's clear.

I drag the unconscious cunt to the storage room next to the cooler. I hope she'll be out for a few more minutes. I go and re-lock the door and quickly wipe away any noticeable blood. I also replace my sign to its spot on the door and grab the candy rack before heading back to the storage room.

Blood's pooled around her head. Why do head wounds always have to bleed like a bitch for? I smash her head several times with the candy rack, crushing it between the rack and the concrete floor that thankfully is painted with a latex paint. That makes the cleaning easier. I'm glad Doug took my suggestion seriously, you know, with all the spills that happen in here. It would be so much harder to clean up the blood and brain matter if he hadn't. Briefly, I'm thrown into a memory of scrubbing at shit—from spilled intestines—for hours, trying to clean it before the floor was painted. Now, all it takes is a little wiping, a once-over with a mop, and ta-da, it's clean.

But, the work never ends for a convenience store clerk. After I get the bitch's body in two extra-large garbage bags, I go out and move her car, backing it into the parking spot closest to the door. I drag the double-bagged garbage through the store, glancing frequently to the parking lot. I've left the trunk open on the car, and after I reach the door and pull her through, I lug her up into the open trunk. After slamming the lid close, I walk back inside.

I pick up the phone and punch in the number for my partner, Joy. I listen to it ring, and she answers, groggily, “Hey.”

“Hey, babe, I've got another car that needs moving,” I say.

“Sure thing. I'll be there in an hour.” She hangs up, and I go back to cleaning.

A couple customers come in while I'm trying to clean, but they're too drunk to notice anything. I have to tell them it's too late for alcohol, and they get irritated, but they leave without a fight.

Once Joy's come and taken the car to the quarry, the last thing for me to do is deal with the video. I make my way to the office with the lockbox key in my hand. I hate this job, but not as much as before. Now that I'm assistant manager, I can get away with just about anything.

Writer Wednesday: Week Twenty-two

Week Twenty-two of Writer Wednesday brings you author T.L. Needham. Needham's books vary from Poetry to YA to Historical. You can find T.L. Needham and his works at the following links:


Needham's Facebook Author Page

Needham's Website

Needham's Amazon Author Page


Books:

When I was a Child—this is a book based mainly on the life of  his uncle, Louis Pfeifer

Pesky Poems

Kitty Claus—Children's book/poem, illustrated

She Wolf—Young Adult (Fantasy) based on a boy who lost his dog in the woods and some very curious stuff happens



Thanks for joining me this week. Remember to leave reviews for the books you read, especially indie books. See you all next week.

Snippet Saturday: The Making of a Wraith, an excerpt from 'Halfborn'

“So, Wraiths are basically executioners. Is there really much more I need to know about them?” I asked.

“You should learn how to avoid them. And, how you learn that is by learning about them. You're making them out to be all bad because of your situation, but they came about by an act of love.”

I tried to put my personal feelings aside. I picked up and drained my glass of its blood. The viscous liquid, left on the inside walls, slowly slid down, back to the bottom of the glass as I reached for the pitcher, so I could pour a refill. I filled it then turned to Marshall, who had an eyebrow cocked at me. I assumed at the fact that I usually only had one glassful.

“Do you need anymore?”

He grabbed his glass and held it in my direction, eager. “Yeah.”

I filled it and set the pitcher back on the table. I'd managed to collect my thoughts and composure by the time I turned back to Innocence.

“So, love—not revenge or hate or a dispute or jealousy or any other possibly negative thing—made the first Wraith. I don't understand how love could have caused someone to kill their own kind,” I finally said.

“Well, in all honesty, there are all of those things involved, but ultimately, isn't it love that undoes us all.”

“Okay, I don't get it. First, you tell me that it happened because of love, but then you say it didn't.” I heaved a breath of frustration.

“Maybe if you hear the story, you'll understand.”

Marshall sat by quietly. I could feel the interest as it seeped out of every pore of his body.

“What say you, Marshall? Would you like to hear the story?” Innocence asked him.

I looked to him, already knowing his answer, but he still gave me a look as if seeking my approval. I shook my head with a slight chuckle. I completely understood, at that moment, why Innocence called him Fido.

“Let's hear it,” I said, turning back to her.

“Okay,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “It all starts with a couple: Dyon and Ixora. Both Inborn. They had been together many years with Ixora giving birth to three children: two boys and a girl. One day Dyon met another woman, Apholenia, a human. He fell for her immediately, leaving Ixora and their children.

“Ixora became enraged. Jealous of Apholenia, she found where the new couple made their rest. Ixora grabbed the woman from the warm arms of her lover. When Apholenia realized what was happening, she began to scream, and her screams woke Dyon. The moment Ixora knew Dyon was aware of what was happening, she bit Apholenia. It took two weeks for the woman to die from the venom of Ixora's bite.

“Dyon, distraught and unwilling to return to the mother of his children and the murderer of his lover, went to his brother, Xantheus. He told his brother what had happened. How he had wronged Ixora, but that he couldn't have denied what he felt in his heart. He told him that he no longer wanted to go on living. That Apholenia had been the other half of his soul, and he was no longer whole. He wished for death, begged for it. But, Xantheus refused to honor his younger brother's wishes.” Innocence stopped for a minute, taking the time to refill her glass and taking a large swig from it.

“Wait, how does this explain how the first Wraith came about if he didn't kill his brother? Or did Dyon kill Ixora?” I asked, even though I'd learned she liked to build up the tension with her stories and stop abruptly before the dramatic ending, leaving one in anticipation.

“For someone that didn't want to learn any more about Wraiths, you sure are impatient to know how and why they came to be.” She took another sip from her glass.

“Well, if you wouldn't just stop in the middle of a story maybe I wouldn't get impatient,” I said.

Marshall laughed, causing me to look over at him. “I personally enjoy how Innocence tells stories. I like the need to know, and for it to be drawn out,” he said.

“Yep. I knew you enjoyed torture,” I retorted.

“It's not torture; it's excitement.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Marshall.” I turned back to face Innocence. “So?”

“Jeesh! Okay, okay. Days went by, then weeks, and months. Xantheus could barely stand the pain in his brother's eyes. In his voice. Dyon refused to feed, and he turned into a mere shell of the person he used to be. Xantheus battled with himself on which torment he could live with easier, taking the life of his brother or watching the misery of him day in and out. He finally decided that death would be a gift for Dyon and agreed to do his bidding. It was when Xantheus said the words to Dyon and a spark of happiness lit his eyes that Xantheus realized he'd made the right choice, for he'd not seen that much life in his brother for far too long. That was Dyon's gift to him. That split second of happiness.

“With his small stone blade in his left hand and much larger stone blade in his right, Xantheus pierced Dyon's heart with the small blade and with more strength than he thought he could muster, took his head off with the larger blade. It was only when he'd made it to the lake—blood and tears covering his face—that he realized he had changed. Leaning over the water to wash his face, he saw his reflection in the shimmering surface, and the golden-yellow pattern of his eyes had changed to the silver-blue that the Wraiths have.”

Hearing the details of how Xantheus had killed his brother left a flashback of my mother's death in my mind, which I pushed away with everything I had. I couldn't focus on moving forward if I couldn't get over the past.

“So, what happened to Xantheus?” Marshall asked.

“I'm not really sure. He wasn't really accepted after it was told how his eyes had changed, and he left the community. There aren't any stories of him after that. It took years for the next Wraith to become, and then even longer for Wraiths to be accepted as a Born breed. But, once truly accepted, which was after the Abominates came to be, they became staples in the Born community.”

“So, you don't know if he's still around today?” Marshall piped up again.

I was still trying to process the story, and he wanted to know more.

“If he is, he'd be at least ten-thousand years old. Even I can't imagine still wanting to live after that long. I suppose it's possible he's still out there, somewhere. I'd never really thought about it,” Innocence answered, her voice sounding uninterested.

“Really. You never wanted to know what came of him?” he asked, pushing the subject.

     “No, why would I? I have my own life. I don't need to know about someone who's millennia-old,” she said as if it made perfect sense, and I couldn't help but agree with it.

Writer Wednesday: Week Twenty-one

So, we're just going to cut to the chase with these posts from now on.

The featured author for Week Twenty-One is R.C. Fletcher. Fletcher writes Fantasy stories that are similar to retellings but not really. She uses characters from stories like Robin Hood, Little Red Riding Hood, and the like to create something extremely unique and, in my opinion, original. Fletcher has recently released the second in her Rachel Andric series.

Here are some useful links to find R.C. Fletcher and her works:


Fletcher's Facebook Author Page

Fletcher's Twitter



Books on Amazon:

Rachel Andric and The Story

Rachel Andric and The Four of The Story


Thanks for joining me this week, and I'll see you next week for Week Twenty-Two. Remember, support indie authors, and please, leave a review for their work. It means more than you'd think.

Short Story Saturday: Sleep

SLEEP

My eyes fluttered open. Vision still blurry from the deep sleep that had consumed me. Was it the door closing that woke me?

The strange sensation that someone's eyes watched me filled my body, and the hairs on my arms began to raise. A shadow came into my view, and my body stiffened. As I focused my eyes, the shadow became familiar.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be out of town until next Wednesday?" I asked, my voice still rough with sleep.

"We got back early," he said.

"Oh," was all I managed as I rolled to my side to let sleep reclaim me, content with his answer.

The bed gave under his weight as he crawled onto it. I felt him hovering over me. His warm lips brushed my neck. I'd not been sleeping well that week, so the fact that I had actually been in a deep sleep, for once, before his coming in had wakened me, made me groan in protest. His advances furthered, flicking his tongue back and forth over my earlobe. It felt so right, but something about it was wrong. I rolled to lie on my back, giving into him. His tongue continued to flicker in and out of his mouth, sliding over my skin, and running across my cheek before stopping on the bridge of my nose. As it had glided across my cheek, I felt how narrow and long it was, but it was only when his tongue hit my nose did I notice it ended with two points.

My eyes went wide. Adjusting quicker to the dark than normal, I saw that this thing was not the person I thought it was. Its flesh was alabaster. The irises of its eyes were a milky maroon.

The breath caught in my throat, no matter how much I wanted to scream. I froze as he—no, it—straddled me, pinning me to the bed.

"You look surprised," it hissed. "I guess, I'm not who you were expecting. This will only take a minute, and then it will all be over."

Its hands went to my neck; thumbs resting on either side of my throat, and its fingers wrapped around to the back, resting under my hair. The nails from its fingers grew and began to bury themselves just below the base of my skull.

Pain shot through my body, and the scream that was trapped in my throat finally erupted from my mouth.

I sat straight up in bed, gasping and fighting for air. A faint whisper filled my ears as my eyes opened for what seemed to be the second time from a deep sleep.

"You have to sleep, sometime, and you will. When you least expect it, I'll be back to take what I came for."



*This story is included in my Flash-Fiction collection 'Images From a Wandering Mind', and it's also in the WPaD's horror anthology 'Creepies 3: Nightmares on Deviant Street', which partial proceeds go toward MS research.

Writer Wednesday: Week Twenty

Welcome to Writer Wednesday: Week Twenty. Yeah, I'm trying to write these up in advance now to avoid any rough patches where I can't get to them. That's not fair to you, the readers, or to the authors that I'm trying to promote.

I hope everyone is well! Also, I hope some of you peeps have found some fantastic reading material that you like. 😁 Okay, let's get down to business!

For Week Twenty of Writer Wednesday, I bring to you Tarek Refaat as the featured author. Tarek and I used to talk quite often, way back in 2011 or so, when we first found ourselves through an author like for like, follow for follow 'program' type thing called #sharethelove. After liking several thousand author pages on Facebook, I was, for some unknown reason to me, booted from the list. Not that I was receiving the appropriate return from the program, but it did give me a handful of author friends that I still interact with to this day. In a way, the program kind of worked.

Anyway, back to Tarek. He's an Egyptian writer who writes mostly about the problems faced by Egyptian and Arabian women. Here are some links to where you can find him and his works:

Tarek's Facebook

Tarek's Twitter

Amazon Author Page


Books:

Ruptured

Ribbons and Heels

Broken Shadows


Thanks for joining me for Writer Wednesday: Week Twenty. Remember to support indie authors, and don't forget to leave reviews for their work.




Code word: William
CONTEST CANCELLED DUE TO LACK OF INTEREST!

Snippet Saturday: Sharing is Caring or something like that

A Halfborn excerpt

Three embarrassingly, awkward days passed after the dream. Marshall had been moody when I asked his preference on a meal for the night. Something I hadn't done before, but I thought it might lighten his exasperation. I registered his surprise. I waited as he thought for several minutes. Finally, he smiled.

“I want to share. Is that okay?” He looked at his feet, then he glanced up through his lashes, moving only his eyes.

“If that's what you want,” I said, suspiciously. I couldn't get a sense on what he was feeling. I wondered if he was successfully blocking me through the bond we shared.

“I want it to be a man. A big man. The biggest guy you can find,” he added.

I nodded. “Okay.” I pushed mentally at the barrier he placed between us. It didn't budge.

I’d gotten the feeling he'd had the plan awhile as he went over how he'd wanted everything done. He wanted me to bring the guy to a blanket that would be spread out on the ground behind the Winnebago. As we were getting comfortable, I was to say, “Did you hear that?” and hand the man a flashlight. Marshall wanted me to play the scared bimbo and hang on the guy's shoulder as he checked to see if he could find what made the noise. I'd decided Marshall had watched too many B-horror movies. The phrase that gave the go-ahead was, “There! Right over there. I saw something.”

As corny as it sounded, it actually worked. The guy, someone I'd found outside a dumpy little bar, had no clue he was being set-up, and the look on his face, when he finally realized, was priceless. The kill was a little odd, though. As I took one side of the man's neck from my perch behind him, Marshall took the other side of the guy's neck from the front. The man was sandwiched between us, and mine and Marshall's lips were mere inches apart from each other's. It was strange and exciting, in a way. I was sure it had been the plan from the get-go. Marshall wanted the closeness. Once I realized that, I couldn't take it, and I pulled away. I let Marshall finish the guy off.

The barriers that he’d had in place all that day came crashing down. I let all the feelings he had envelop me. It was the least I could do; he was hurting so bad. I gave him his time to show me what he'd been going through . . . but it wasn't everything he should’ve been going through. I had the fleeting thought that he still hadn't dealt with what he'd done to his parents, and that he'd never really grieved for himself and what I'd done to him. With that thought, I pushed down on his emotions. I didn't block them, I just put them in the background of my mind.

Code word: Damien
   *Don't know what the code's for? Check out Writer Wednesday: Week Nineteen to find answers.
CONTEST CANCELLED DUE TO LACK OF INTEREST!

Writer Wednesday: Week Nineteen

Welcome to Writer Wednesday: Week Nineteen! I hope everyone's well. Okay, so let's get this show on the road!


This week's Writer Wednesday's featured author is Cassandra DenHartog. Cassandra is with Neoleaf Press LLC, which runs a number of contests—currently, they're running a contest for Horror shorts for an anthology. Don't forget to check out their Facebook page, as well.

Below are several links where you can find Cassandra DenHartog and her works:


Cassandra's Facebook

Cassandra's Twitter

Cassandra's Website

Cassandra's Amazon


Books:

Creating Grace

Past in Shadows

Mighty Miserable Monday: The Funny Anthology No One Asked For

Ensorcelled Royal Ties


Thanks for joining me this week for Writer Wednesday. I hope to see you next week with a new author. Remember support indie and small press authors, and please, leave a review for them. Reviews can be the difference in whether an author succeeds or not.



Attention! Attention!

I have something special to offer. I just so happen to have an extra paperback copy of 'Halfborn'. If you'd be interested in being entered into a drawing for this copy just follow these instructions: Over the next four weeks, I'll put a code word at the end of my blog posts. Either comment here or on the relevant post on my Facebook page (preferred) using the code word in a sentence. Your sentence must be different from any previous entries. You'll get an entry for every code word you use. You'll have a week after the final code is given to enter, and then I will put all the entries into a random name selector to pick the winner. There will only be one winner.

*Note: Unfortunately, I can only ship within the USA, at this time. 😞 I apologize for any inconvenience. Though, if you'd still like to participate, you're more than welcome to.

Code word: Petra

CONTEST HAS BEEN CANCELLED DUE TO LACK OF INTEREST!

Short Story Saturday: Soulmate

This story is probably my favorite and certainly one of the more disturbing ones I've written. If you shy away from sexual situations in writing, stop reading now. If you can't distinguish fiction from reality and think that I would really partake in such an event that I write about, you should probably stop reading now. If you find it wrong to sexualize death, murder, and blood, yeah, you got it. Stop reading.

However, if you like to delve into the most disturbing, disgusting, and depraved of humanity, well, you've come to the right place. Please enjoy the story, which I said is one of my personal favorites.

SOULMATE

I remember the first time I felt the sensation of arousal. Sure, I'd had sex before that night, but it was just something to do—something to pass the time. Although, it did very little for me, and I'd never actually desired to perform the act.

The minute hands were ticking closer and closer toward midnight. The sidewalks were filled with people meandering about—some stumbling from intoxication—but the roads weren't as crowded. So, it came as a surprise when I heard it: the screech of tires, the impact of metal, and the thud of something a bit softer being hit by something much harder. It sounded less than a block away. Screams passed through the alleyways, and cries echoed off of the buildings around me. My curiosity piqued and led me to the scene of the accident.

A pile of metal—what I assumed used to be a motorcycle—lay on the ground in front of a car, of which the front-end was obliterated. A good fifty feet away, behind the car, a person lay on the ground in a heap. I walked closer toward the pile that resembled a human being. A bald man, I thought, though the skin from his head stretched over the road in such a way that it was really hard to tell. So, I was going on the lack of visible hair. His skull had hit the asphalt with such force that it split open much like a dropped watermelon. Only the spilled fruit on the ground wasn’t a dark pinkish-red like that of a melon, but instead, a dull pink splashed with the crimson of blood, smeared the asphalt. The brain had lost its natural shape with the impact.

The body twitched, though there was no saving it. It was probably dead the second the head came in contact with the road, and only the dying nerves left the body jerking a leg here and an arm there. I wet my lips with my tongue as my breaths and pulse quickened. Someone gagged nearby, followed by a splattering noise of liquid hitting the pavement, and the smell of vomit hit my nostrils, but I was so fucking turned on.

***

It took me two years to get here today. Two long years of searching for someone who would do what I wanted—needed—them to do for me. Feeding my addiction for death and gore along the way with a police scanner that notified me of accidents and deliberate acts of violence, or occasionally, I found myself sneaking around emergency departments. I didn't want or need to kill, but I needed the blood. I needed the death. It was my foreplay and my release rolled into one. So, I found someone who did have the need that I lacked.

This night has been a long time coming. I have nothing to compare the feelings to that are running through me as Dwayne leads me to his private room. I walk in and look around. A tall brunette, her hair a clumped mess hanging over her face, is bound and chained in the middle of the room, wearing only her bra and panties. Her arms are stretched out from her sides. Her legs spread wide, and she appears to be in pain.

Images flash through my mind at the possibilities. Are the chains connected to a mechanism? Will they tighten, causing her to split up the middle? I lick my suddenly dry lips, and something deep in my lower belly clenches in desire.

“Your best view will be there,” Dwayne says while pointing to a red and black checkered love-seat.

I smile and make my way over to the two-person chair. “Aren't you going to change?” I ask, noticing he's wearing a white shirt and a pair of light-colored jeans.

“No. I'm giving you these clothes when I'm done. You can keep them, and if you're lucky, you can use them to trigger memories of tonight in between our meetings. You know, instead of sneaking around to get your fix. You sneak too much, you're bound to get noticed or worse, caught.”

I hadn't thought of that—using objects for memory recall—and I wonder if it will work. I'll have to try it out the next time I get a craving, I think to myself.

I sit back and relax as Dwayne walks over to the far wall and presses on something. A panel slides out of the way to reveal a large selection of knives. I lick my lips again, and he begins to inspect each blade. He chooses one, its blade is black rather than the silver of the steel ones. It has a white handle decorated with chrome. It's a truly beautiful thing to see.

Dwayne walks over to the brunette who begins thrashing about, trying her hardest to break free. I couldn't care less for this part. It isn't what does it for me, but we are sharing the experience, and he needs this to be satisfied.

He brings the blade to her cheek and draws it down. I'm not sure if it has even cut through the skin, but strands of hair fall to the floor. Then a small line of red shows, beginning to trickle down her face. It reaches her jawline and drips onto her bra-covered breast. The peach colored fabric pulling the thick liquid into its threads. A tingling sensation starts in the pit of my stomach as Dwayne moves to put several more slices over the woman's body. Blood weeps from the cuts, and my underwear grow damper in arousal with each fresh crimson stream.

He begins to make each new cut deeper than the previous, and this causes them to bleed more quickly as he continues his work. I stretch out along the love-seat and raise my skirt, slipping my hand into the black, lace thong I'm wearing. He looks back at me and grins when he sees what I'm doing. I stay focused on the blood.

The brunette passes out, and Dwayne pulls something from his pocket, waving it under her nose. Her head jerks back, and she cries. Has she been doing that all along? I hadn't noticed.

He continues slicing and cutting as I rub gently at myself. The girl passes out several more times, and he wakes her from her dark reprieve time and again. She's beginning to pale from loss of blood. My wrist aches, and I wonder how long we've been at this.

Dwayne turns his head, looking over his shoulder at me. Sweat drips from his brow, and he has a look in his eyes. Maybe he wants me, or maybe he wants the same thing I do. I want to see the light fade from this girl's eyes, but if that's what he wants, I don't think I'll ever know for sure.

He steps to the side of the brunette, giving me a better view of his work. I nearly explode on the spot. He takes a second to watch me admire his work, then drives his knife into her abdomen, tearing it open by pulling the knife in several different directions. Viscera hits the floor, hanging from what used to be her stomach but is now just a crater in her flesh.

I'm undone. But, he's not finished. In a quick motion, he brings the black blade across her throat. A short burst of blood sprays and splashes the white shirt he's wearing. Another shock runs through my body, and I try to still myself through its quivers and twitches.

My arm aches, my clit's raw and sensitive, but I'm satisfied. Then the smell that has permeated the air in the room registers, but I don't care because I think I've found my soulmate. I smile as Dwayne walks toward me, removing his clothing and dropping it to the floor along his way.