🎾🎾🎾

It turned out his replacement barber that day was better than his regular. Maybe his blade was sharper. Maybe his hand was steadier. But there was hardly any sensation as the metal ran across his neck. There was something about that feeling that exhilarated Dempsey. The other man behind him, holding death so close. One swift move of that hand and that would be it. He imagined the blood first gushing from his carotid, then pouring down onto his chest, his head immediately losing its supply, his brain going black. The final headrush.

He thought about last night, how he lost himself in the whiskeys. The rest of the night was starting to come back to him now. Her perfect body beneath him. His own muscles taught. A drop of sweat falling from his forehead. It was coming back in tiny vignettes. 

"There you go." The barber had a thick accent. Eastern European. Dempsey wondered if it was Ukrainian but didn't dare ask.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. His face was once again perfection.