Bound by Memories

"I'm sorry sir, we cannot accept returns of used condoms."

Ethan sighed, and propped his heels up on the tiny office's desk. Bits of debris fell to the floor, rolling to where they may be tripped over, or lost for the ages. A series of post-it notes, stuck together and every inch filled with chicken-scratch, grabbed the edge of the desk for dear life.

"Well, I'm sorry, sir, but my hands are tied. Maybe if you had a receipt, I could do something for you, but..." He trailed off, silently pleading for the crazy person on the other end of the phone to hang the fuck up. "Alright, you keep - keep looking, sir. Yup. Come in if you find it. Al - alright. Yup, Buh-bye."

The phone was dropped back onto the desk with an air of endless frustration, and Ethan stuck his tongue out at no one in particular. Not for the first time, he wished with his whole being that the last, sorrowful Blockbuster in town hadn't closed. It hadn't been any less soul-destroying to be a manager there, but at least he didn't have to explain the return policies of prophylactics. No, you just had to chase out the pervs when they tried to get off on the porn covers, he thought idly, rubbing his face.

"Bleh." Ethan's face contorted at the now ice-cold coffee congealing in his mug, and sighed yet again. "I really have to stop doing that," he muttered to himself, running a hand through chocolate-brown hair; feeling it already soaked with sweat, he grudgingly admitted he was overdue for a Summer trim.

"And you need to give Stacy a raise."

Ethan shot up in his chair as his radio crackled to life. "Sorry, I must've been leaning on the call button."

"Doooon't apologiiiize," Stacy warbled through the static, in an attempt to sound spooky, he guessed. "This is your conscience. You know Stacy is a haaaaard woooorker, and deserves a raise."

Ethan snorted, despite himself. "Stace, stop chatting with your buddies." The grainy approximation of a teenage girl in a blue tee (their boss had flipped over the casual clothes, but everyone from the vendors to the regulars ran right up his ass - if he was too cheap to fix the a.c., he could deal with the lack of uniforms) made a face at the camera. Or maybe she just scratched her hair. It was almost impossible to see details on the shitty things, and more than once he'd argued with Bill that they should either upgrade, or stop pretending they could actually see any theft.

"Well, you stop staring down my shirt in the office."

Ethan rolled his eyes at the chorus of "woooo!" from her friends. As much as he'd like to simply hide away in the manager's cave, and perhaps instill some order to the layers of papers pinned to the wall, or merging with the tile, he had to at least pretend to be a boss. With a grunt, he pushed himself out of the worn office chair, and back onto his aching feet for what promised to be a very long day.

Muggy air, and the smell of a moist gym locker washed over Ethan as he strode through the isles of the convenience mart. An eye twitched when he passed by an open cooler door. There was a poorly-hidden tear in one of the beer cases; if he bothered to check, he knew there'd be exactly three cans missing, though by now, it scarcely bothered him. What got under his skin were the purposefully disorganized six-packs, something that would earn him a savage lashing from Bill. Whenever he returned from his latest honeymoon, that is, and Ethan could go back to doing paperwork in peace. The sound of idiots laughing and congratulating each other for something undoubtedly stupid reached his ears as he rounded the dog food display.

"...Yeah, but no, what I'm sayin', is how does it make any sense for his healing factor to just be in his bone marrow?"

"It doesn't, but they can't just have some invicible murder-machine waltz across the screen for two hours. It's boring."