Carwash
The carwash stretched ahead of her. A shiver of fear went up her spine. She sat in the Lexus and stared. It was an old piece of machinery that made a wheezing sound as it dispensed its chemicals. But she quickly decided she was a fool. It was the same old carwash she brought the Lexus through every week.
She was trying to forget him as she put her foot on the gas pedal. How he stood there, always dressed in black, his face perpetually hidden to her by an upturned collar.
Shouldn’t he wear a nametag? He never said a word as she handed him the ten-dollar bill and asked for change.
Slowly she drove into the carwash. It made a loud screech when the tire hit the cradle. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw there were no other cars in line. Self-consciously she locked the doors, and then gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers turned white.
The wash chemicals covered the windshield and she couldn’t see. Wait, she wanted to scream, but there was no one there to hear her. Except him. Had he just been standing there, in the car wash? No, of course not. But wait…
Yes. There he was. Smirking at her. What was happening?
He reached a hand out to wipe the white chemical off the window. “You never did learn how to tip, did you?” he hollered over the drone of the carwash, before raising the small silver handgun and pointing it at the glass.
