Bob wiped the remaining shaving cream from his face and leaned in towards the mirror. He studied his cheeks, which remained their youthful chubbiness well into adulthood. His greying hair was thinning. Eyes which had once drawn compliments for their brightness had dimmed. Wrinkles starting to form in his forehead. He acknowledged to himself that he had spectacularly unremarkable, forgettable face.
He moved to the bedroom, where a freshly ironed white shirt and tie hung from his bedroom door. He finished dressing, then reached into a box on his dresser to pull out a new pair of black wingtips. The scent of leather wafted from the box. He slipped the shoes onto his feet and laced them up, then arranged the box neatly under his bed.
On his way to the front of the house, he stopped at the hall closet – reaching up onto the top shelf, he pulled down another, larger wooden box. He opened the top. Inside was a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver, stainless steel with a glass bead finish and molded black handle. Not a classic ‘man stopper,’ the seller at the gun show told him, but it had a low recoil and good accuracy. He opened the small cardboard box next to it and counted out six bullets, placing one in each cylinder. He tucked the gun into his waistband, the way he saw it done on television. If was heavier than he imagined it would be.
He threw on his sportscoat and grabbed his car keys. At the door, he gave his apartment one last look. Everything was tidy, in its assigned place. He walked out the door, locking it behind him.
As Bob started towards the driveway, he smiled. After tonight, no one would forget him.