That Old Feeling

Bernie’s tone changed to instant rage, “Hey boy, you flirtin’ with my girl?” The clerk jerked his face toward Bernie. Bernie laughed. “Relax, kid. I’m just kidding. No Sweetie, no messing around. I don’t want to leave any DNA. Remember that episode of CSI where they caught the killer with only a small drop?”

“But we want to get caught this time. The last hurrah, right? ‘Come back to the five and dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean,” Marge cooed, kissing the clerk on the nose. He recoiled from the waxy lipstick on his skin. The woman smelled of lilac and grandma. He made a noise through his gag. She wiped off the lipstick from his nose with her fingers. Marge reluctantly stood up.

Bernie had walked away on his cane, and yelled from the back of the store, “Caught? yes, but you know we have to time this just right. We’ll start leaving fingerprints and evidence around number seven. Heck, I guess that will make it fourteen if you count our first road trip in ‘63. Where’s your purse?”

“It’s over there,” but she was still standing over the clerk, staring into his eyes. She licked her lips suggestively. The young man nearly gagged as he saw her sway, running her hands up and down her body.

Bernie came back from the purse, slipping something into Margie’s hand as he passed. “This is smoother than the rock you used the first time,” Bernie noted.

Marge accepted the heavy glass paperweight and ran it slowly down her body. “Hmmm. Let’s hurry, Lover,” Margie purred, “I want to get back to the motel room soon.”





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