Gerry Boomers

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Ed Ronson regarded the dying razor in his hand, the soft buzz fading as he stared at it.

So much for manufacturer’s claims, he mused. The charge should have held for at least a month, and he had recharged the razor only five days earlier. But then he remembered that it had been plugged in the day the power went off, and must not have had a chance to become fully charged.

Leaning on the edge of the sink, he bent closer to the mirror and ran a hand over his chin, then down his neck and over both cheeks. The small amount of morning sunlight streaming through the tiny window over the bathtub made it difficult to see even with the shower curtain pulled aside, but his face felt smooth enough. He’d look just fine at the meeting. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about trying to use a blade for a couple more days. Not having shaved with a blade for at least forty years, the thought of using one on a daily basis until the power returned didn’t thrill him. He frowned at himself in the mirror.

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