Page 39 of The Last Man on Earth
“Obviously for a moment such as this.”
He chuckles, then tips his head back to stare up at the sky. “It might not come to that, though. I hope it don’t.”
I settle onto the sand next to him, bringing my knees to my chest, draping an arm over them. “I still can’t believe this is happening.”
“Who you tellin’?”
We stare at the sea for a while. Calm. Peaceful. The tropical vacation we needed but never took.
“What do you think is happening back home?” I ask. “I’m sure your name is all over the news.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
I turn my head to look at him. “What’s it like being a celebrity?”
He shrugs. “It’s definitely different. If you woulda asked me that last week, the answer would have been like, aye, it’s lit. I can get any bitch I want. Any car. Any crib. Any drugs. I can even get somebody to wipe my ass if I want.” He brings his eyes to mine. “I guess you can say this shit here humbled the fuck outta me, cuz what good did all that shit do? I’m still sitting right here next to you in the dirt, waitin’ on somebody to roll past and save my fuckin’ life.”
I’m struck by his sincerity. Surprised, too.
“I think maybe…” I trail off, staring down at my toes, which desperately need to be done. “I think we should move closer to the ocean.”
“Why?”
“It’s like a fifteen minute walk every time we come down here. It just makes more sense to be near the sign, right?”
“If it comes to that, yeah. I don’t think it will.”
He sounds less certain every time he says that.
I lift a hand to pat my scalp, beating the itch away. It’s unbearable.
Villain watches me, tilting his head like he’s a researcher and I’m a specimen in a lab. “Y’all do that when it itches, right?”
I nod, still patting.
He exhales, long and reluctant. “Aight. I’ll help you.”
I blink at him. “You will?”
“Yeah. Tell me what to do.”
I put my knees under me, lifting myself higher in my excitement. “Okay. Find the thread and follow it. You have to cut it carefully so that you’re not cutting my hair out. If you—“
“Cut it with what?” he interrupts.
I open my mouth, then close it again, racking my brain trying to remember if there were scissors in that first aid kit.
Then Villain says, “Hold up.”
He reaches into his pocket. “Forgot I had this.” Out comes a pocket knife. When he clicks a button, the razor sharp blade flips up and reveals itself, gleaming in the sun.
“Um…”
“Relax,” he says, grinning. “I’ll be careful. I ain’t gon’ have you out here bald.”
Reluctantly, I position myself on the sand in front of him, almost between his legs, but not far back enough to call it that. His fingers slip into my hair, surprisingly gentle, searching for the thread. When I feel the cold blade sliding close to my skin, I tense, but he steadies me with a low, sure, “Relax. I got you.”
The sound of the thread snapping free is more satisfying than I expect. He leans closer, fingers working, his breath brushing the back of my neck.
