catastrophic
The barber doesn't think - he just feels. Blind as he is, people trust him to hold that razor blade to their necks, and miraculously, it's a perfect shave every time. He cleans them off, and they're free to go. When they leave, their faces are clean-shaven, and their spirits are a little lighter.
She wraps her arms around me, and her touch is as soft as wool. She says to me, "Touch me," and I do, in all the wrong places. In every way possible, she is a sheep - malleable, soft, and a follower to boot. Maybe I love her for it, or maybe I just love how she feels under my fingertips. We both know that she'll always be mine to hold.
She was a coward for leaving him behind, she knew, but it was every man for himself around here. Did leaving him make her more of a man, she wondered, than he could have ever been? She clutched the sword she had stolen with a tight grip, ignoring the fire that licked at her feet, and never, not once, looked back.
He got what he deserved, she thought.