Jessica Klimesh
Rusty’s Razor
My boss said it was a promotion, transporting me to America and making me a human named Gail, twenty-two years old. “Twenty-two,” he said, “because humans value youthfulness there.” I said, “Is twenty-two really considered youthful? Why not twelve or thirteen?” And his face flushed furious and he said, “No, that would be too young. American humans don’t care about live children. Haven’t you ever seen the news? They let them get shot at school over and over again.” He paused before adding, “Don’t make me regret this promotion.”
I nodded and didn’t say anything else, but now my youthful skin suit itches, hot prickles of angst. “If you’d seen the news,” my boss had said, “you’d also know that the humans there are beginning to suspect. They know about mutables.”
Rusty, the bartender, is pouring Dan and me generous shots of what Rusty calls mood enhancers, saying “Let’s toast Gail!” and “Let’s all drink to Gail!” And after each drink, it seems like the temperature goes up, hotter and hotter, but the mood enhancers are doing their thing, so I just yell along with Rusty and the other patrons, “Yes, let’s all drink to Gail!” And then I remember I’m Gail, so I say, “I mean, let’s all drink to me!”
After the fourth round, Dan says, “Hey, Gail, wanna get out of here?” He puts his hand on my shoulder, fiddles with the curly strands of my blonde hair. I feel another rush of warmth and look toward the vents on the wall. It’s too warm. These human suits weren’t made for such heat.
I just met Dan tonight, but he seems friendly, keeps smiling alright, twirling my hair in his fingers. It seems that humans always smile a lot when they have these mood enhancers, so it must be okay, but I also remember my boss saying not to get too comfortable. “You’ve got a job to do, and your age—Gail’s age—is a vulnerable one. And you’re green,” he said, and because I knew he was already doubting my competency, I didn’t want to ask what he meant by “green.” Surely he wasn’t referring to my real skin, underneath all the layers. So now I keep looking for seams on Dan, wondering if maybe he can see mine. Or if he suspects, even a little. But, I mean, at a place like Rusty’s Razor? So far from any metropolis?
I say to Rusty, “Rusty, my man, what about some A/C, you know?” I try to say it like a twenty-two-year-old human would.
And then Dan says, more persistently now, “Gail, let’s go somewhere else. You know, quieter. And maybe not so…warm.”
“Oh, Dan-Dan-Danny-boy Dan,” I say, “I don’t even know your last name. Or, like, what you do. Or, ha ha, if you’re married.”
“But does any of that really matter?” he says.
“Well,” I say, “what if you’re one of those mutables, you know? Those extraterrestrials, ha ha. Those infiltrators. What if you’re not who you say you are? Because, you know.”
Rusty, he’s watching us. I mean to say, he’s watching me. He flips a switch on the wall, the A/C, I assume, fixates his eyes on me. He’s got shocks of gray hair that stick out like he’s put his finger in a socket. And stubble, which I like, but I can just imagine it tearing my skin if he kissed me. Which I think about after last week, when, after three rounds of mood enhancers, I showed him the little daisy tat on my boobie. He said, “Put that away, Gail.” And I said, “Alright, alright,” giggling the way Gail would. I mean, it wasn’t even my real boobie, though he wouldn’t have known that. And not a real tattoo either. All that skin covering skin covering skin. But I’m sure he’s a non-mutable. That is to say, I’m sure Rusty’s human. One of those humans that don’t trust mutables. I mean to say, that don’t want us—them—here. On Earth.
“I think it’s all just fear mongering,” Dan says. “Do you really believe they exist, mutables?”
And then Rusty pours us another one, and the way he looks at me, I’m wondering if he wants to see that daisy again.
“Ha ha,” I say to Dan, “who knows?” I try to pitch the question in a casual way, waving my arm in the air, but I accidentally knock over Dan’s glass, and that’s when I feel it all going wrong.
“Rusty,” I say, “hey, barkeep, what did you maybe give us in that last shot? Because boy oh boy oh boy it’s hot in here.” And I can only think of melting, of my toes clumping together in my Docs, and how my mini-skirt might just be too short now because there are seams, seams everywhere, though maybe it’s my imagination. “Oh, hello, Rusty,” I say, “what about that A/C?”
And he just looks at me, and I glance at Dan, who says, “So, Gail, I really think we should get out of here, you know?” He stands up but looks dizzy. Or maybe it’s me who’s spinning.
“Uh, okay,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. But I can feel a burning in my chest now. I can smell ash and fumes. I touch Dan’s arm then, to steady myself, and when I do, I notice how hot it is. So hot you could fry an egg on it.
“Wha—?” I say.
“Oh, yeah,” Dan says, “that happens, you know?” And then he stares me down so hard that I know he knows, and I stare back so that he knows I know, too. But what I don’t know is if he’s here to save me or sacrifice me. If he’s really one of us—of me. Or if it’s a ploy. Either way, though, if Dan’s overheating, it can only mean one thing. That we don’t have much time.
Jessica Klimesh (she/her) is a US-based writer and writing coach whose creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Spotlong Review, Ghost Parachute, Milk Candy Review, Flash Frog, Gone Lawn, and Gooseberry Pie, among others. Her work was selected for Best Microfiction 2025 and Best of the Net 2025. Learn more at jessicaklimesh.com.
