Less than two hours later, Brad was standing in front of a gray painted door at the address the girl had given him. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans for the hundredth time, took a last deep breath, and rang the bell.
It had stopped raining and a thin layer of ice was freezing over everything, giving the shabby bungalow a shimmering holiday gleam. Brad gleamed too. He’d showered and shaved off his latest attempt at a goatee. His short black hair was gelled to a peak on his forehead and he’d sprayed all the important areas, on Jason’s insistence, with Jason’s knock-off Calvin Klein body spray. Brad had even worked out what he was going to say to the girl on the bus ride over. He’d imagined her beautiful face in his mind, and it was already making him nervous.
The door swung open and Brad’s brain went blank. He was suddenly face to face with a Viking. The huge hairy man couldn’t have been much older than Brad, but raping and pillaging is always murder on the skin. His ribcage was a giant’s and his two dark eyes glared out at Brad from behind a fringe of shaggy red hair. Half a honey cruller was hanging out of his mouth.
“What do ya want?” growled the man. The cruller didn’t budge.
For 5 agonizing seconds, Brad had no memory of why he was all polished up and standing in this wild man’s doorway. The Viking’s eyes narrowed. It was enough of a threat to wake Brad up.
“Sorry,” said Brad. “I’m here about the couch.”
Keep checking SavingCymbria for the next installment of “The Couch” – a serial short story