Apocalypstick by Gregory Carrico, Greg Carrico Page B

was
my wife, greeting me with that glass of wine as I came home from work.
    She blinked a few times, and gave me an odd look, like she had just
remembered something she shouldn’t have forgotten.
    “I don’t know where my head is, Hon. I’ll be right back.” She
kissed my cheek and lightly touched my chest as she walked by. Her fingers felt
electric through my t-shirt, and I gasped.
    “What are you doing?”
    It was my other voice. “Do I have to take care of this one, too?
Stop smiling so much!”
    I stopped smiling. “But what if this is it? What if this is our
new home?” I whispered.
    Kristi came back with a tall glass of wine. “Is white ok? It’s
all I could find.”
    I turned back to the closet and ran my hands over the sinfully
soft cashmere jacket. I could practically see the handsome man of the house putting
it on to go to a meeting, or maybe just the grocery store. He was tall, with
thick wavy hair, like the people on TV.
    Fido’s sweaters were soft, too. I touched the pink umbrella’s
handle and pictured the pretty lady of the house. She had short, stylish hair
that smelled like coconuts. I saw her walking the little curly brown dog in a
light summer rain. ‘Come on, Shirley,’ she says to the dog.
    So that’s its name. Shirley.
    Kristi looked at the glass of wine like it had been put in her
hand by a ghost. Her smile faltered, but her voice knew what to do.
    “Shall we look at the rest of the house? I’m so embarrassed, but
I didn’t catch your name.” She held out her hand again. “Kristi.”
    Not wanting a repeat of my first words to her, I cleared my
throat and spoke with a loud, firm voice.
    “Thank you, Kristin.” I might have yelled it at her, but at
least I didn’t croak like a sick frog.
    She smiled again, and I knew she understood. I walked out to the
front patio and back to the van. I didn’t need to see any more. It was perfect.
    But my other voice was angry. As soon as I closed the van door,
it started yelling.
    “What were you doing in there, you moron? How can we ever find a
new home with you going around scaring people?”
    “I didn’t scare her! She understood! She knew.”
    “She didn’t know anything! You messed up again, and now I have
to clean up after you… agian.”
    “No, you’re not! Leave me alone! I’m finding home.”
    The next thing I knew, I was in a hotel room with a big, comfy
bed, a chair, and a small couch. There was a little table with an office chair,
too, and a couple of nice pictures on the wall. The digital clock-radio said
9:45 PM. The whole day was gone.
    I saw myself in the tall mirror by the door. I looked shabby
after an entire day of driving, and whatever else I might have done. I needed a
shower, but I was nervous about taking my clothes off with nothing but a thin
wall between me and whatever weird strangers lurked on the other side.
    It wasn’t a place I could be comfortable bathing in, but I could
smell my odor. I knew that when you could smell your own stink, it had to be
pretty bad. I compromised by taking off my shirt and pants, but leaving my
boxers and my unmentionables on to hide my shameful areas.
    I showered quickly, but I didn’t wash my hair. I let two full
minutes of hot water do the work, and then I stood in front of the air
conditioner, letting it blow directly on my wet boxers to dry them. The cold
was invigorating.
    It turns out the walls were pretty thin, because I heard people
talking on the other side. Room service had delivered food to them, and my
stomach growled loudly. It wanted room service, too, but I couldn’t order it
until my clothes were dry.
    Twenty minutes later, the thumping started. It sounded like they
were knocking on the wall, but then I heard the other sounds, and I knew. I was
shivering, and couldn’t tell if my boxers were still wet, or just very cold. I
covered my ears, and hummed Camp Town Races over and over to block it out, but it
didn’t work. I had to get away.
    I dressed quickly, and