An aging man of fourty, the remains of his hair only grey wisps and premature wrinkles forming on the corner of his eyes and mouth and steely blue orbs stared back at him in the mirror. If he stared hard enough, he could just about notice the pale hand marks tattooed to his neck but it didn’t matter. His “wife” wouldn’t be looking for hand marks or blood; rather she’d be looking for any scattered love-bites or lipstick stains. Underneath the public toilet’s mirror, the sink stained with blood whilst he rubbed his hands under the cold running tap, ridding of any tinges of crimson left on his hands.
Wiping away any residue left on his hands with paper towels and discarding them, he pulled down the sleeves of his shirt and buttoned the ends. His steel eyes examined his reflection as he straightened his back but couldn’t help the layer of fat on his stomach jut over his belt. He didn’t like how his nose was hooked like a beak or the way his e