text: Nightcap A man in a dark overcoat and gloves is standing off to the side in a room with a bar to his right, well lit by a small lamp. Across the room, on a loveseat sits plump a woman in her twenties. *Please, sit, have a drink.* The woman, sitting mostly in shadow, gestured to the armchair across from her seat and near the bar, a glass of wine in her hand. The killer was somehow enthralled by this strangely confident woman. She was not intimidating in stature, far from it in fact. She was short and round with a soft heart-shaped face and piercing eyes under a shock of curly hair. “I don’t think you fully grasp your situation, said the man,” blade in hand. He cautiously turned over the knife, blade glinting in the warm lamplight from the bar beside him. *All the more reason for you to sit. Have a drink, I’d like to talk. Understand why it is you’re here.* “Doesn’t the knife make that fairly obvious” The man asked impetuously, and the woman merely laughed, unafraid, and gestured again towards the seat to her right. *There’s whiskey, port, and a nice malbec on the bar, help yourself.* She sipped her own wine and watched him as he looked at her curiously, shook his head and walked to the bar, pouring a large glass of whiskey and drinking deeply. “Why aren’t you afraid?” He demanded, genuinely perplexed. “I’m here to kill you, being paid a lot to do it too. But you’re sitting here, completely unfazed and offering me a drink? You should be afraid, making a deal for your life, or at least wondering why someone wants you dead.” The woman smiled a cheshire grin and shrugged, *I guess you’re right, but here we are. And if I could make a deal with you, you wouldn’t last long in your line of work. Paid killers tend to be required to complete jobs, don’t they?* “That’s true enough.” *So, why a knife?* “What?” *Why a knife? Seems a little overly personal to me.* “Oh. Just quieter, easier to get in and out if you know what you’re doing.” *Awfully messy, though, isn’t it hard to leave without being noticed? Being covered in blood and all.* He shrugs, “I have gloves and an overcoat, do my best to avoid the splash zone.” She laughs abruptly, *the splash zone? Really?* “What? “ *Not the description I was expecting, I guess.* “Is what it is. Knives create spray and cast-off.” *Wouldn’t poison or a garrote be.... Neater?* “A garotte? Does this look like 19th century Spain?“ *Spain? Is that really where garottes started?* “Used there for Capital Punishment, but not invented there, no I don’t think so. Humans have been reinventing the same ways to kill each other since Cain and Abel. We really aren’t that creative about it,” He murmured. *I think crime tv junkies would disagree.* “Eh, sure, there are the occasional psychos who mutilate bodies and such, but for the most part? Stab, strangle, beat, or shoot.” He mused. *Or poison.* “Or poison,” he concedes, then glances to the whiskey he’s been drinking and back at the woman with an alarmed look. “You didn’t?” *No, definitely not. That’s my favorite bottle. I just happen to have been in a wine mood tonight.* “But you were expecting me?” *Yes.* “How?” *Is that important?* “I guess not,” He drinks deeply. *So, why this line of work?* “I’m good at it.” *I’m sure you are good at more than taking life.* “Not particularly.” *Come on now, it’s rude to lie.* “I’m here to kill you and LYING is rude?” *She stares at him expectantly.* “Fine,” he says, exasperated. “I wanted to be a paramedic.” *...what?* “Yeah.” *Well that’s a full 180. How did you go from wanting to save lives to ending them for a living?* “Again, I’m good at it.” *Must take a toll on someone who wanted to save people.* “Not really.” *Lying is rude.* “So is prying.“ *You’re my murderer. I’m allowed to be a little rude.* “Guess I can’t argue that. I’m still not understanding why you’re so calm.” *Why fight what I can’t change?* “You don’t strike me as the type to give up easily.” *I never was.* “So what changed?” *Who says anything has?* “I’m not sure I get it.“ *I’m not sure that I do either. But i’d like to try and understand. That’s why we’re chatting, isn’t it?* “Or maybe you’re just stalling? Waiting for someone to come home and catch me?” *I lived alone, you know that, I’m sure.* “I did, but nothing is certain, no matter how thoroughly you prepare.” *You can do everything right and still lose.* “Didn’t some pop star say that?” *I was going for Captain Picard, but sure.* “Trekkie, huh?” *Generalized nerd. You never answered my question.* “Which question?” *How do you go from paramedic to assassin?* “Assassin is a little melodramatic.” He looks at her sheepishly then stares off in the other direction. “Couldn’t afford the schooling to be a medic, some guys from my neighborhood said they’d help with the tuition if I did them a favor. Favor just so happened to be roughing up a guy who owed them money. One favor turned into two, roughing up turned into taking care of. I did manage to finish the schooling, top of my class too. At the end of the day, I couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy of it. Lasted one day on the job, my last pickup was a guy I knew got tuned up by the same guys I worked for in the neighborhood. They beat him half to death for not paying back a loan. If I hadn’t been on duty, it would’ve been me that beat him, not picking him up to bring to the hospital.” *You could’ve chosen to stay a paramedic.* “I owed them too much money, was in too deep. It was one or the other, and I didn’t wanna end up in the back of a rig half dead for choosing wrong.” *I guess I get that.* “No you don’t.” *You’re right, I don’t, but you’d feel better about it if I did.* “Maybe.” *Is it lonely?* “What?” *Being a killer. Is it lonely?* “It can be.... “He abruptly puts down his glass. “This has gotta stop.” *What do you mean?* “This conversation. I’m not here for a therapy session. I’m here to do a job.” *Clearly you needed someone to talk to, someone who wouldn’t judge you.* “You haven’t judged me? I thought lying was rude.” *I can’t judge you.* “What is that supposed to mean?” *I’m only here because of you, Ronnie.* “How do you know my name?” She doesn’t answer. Ronnie paces in front of the bar for a moment. “Look, this isn’t going to work. Whatever this is that you’re trying to pull. You are a job and I intend to finish it.” *But Ronnie,* the woman says gently, *you already did.* “What are you talking about?” Ronnie picks up the lamp from the bar and shines it on the woman’s lifeless body in the chair, the blood from her slit throat soaked through her blouse, her skin alabaster and bloodless, eyes staring blankly forward. Ronnie drops the lamp in horror, looking again at the knife in his hand, seeing the blade stained red, and his bloody handprints on the glass he’d been drinking from. “What the fuck?” He exclaims in shock as his cell rings. He answers the phone, “Yeah?...... Yeah, it’s done.. Hey, Rico... Nah, nevermind man. Everything’s good. He hangs up. Everything’s good...