The restaurant had its lights dimmed down to simulate candles, an overall clatter of metal on porcelain, a spicy garlic scent, the distant hiss of sizzling, live music—piano not a band—and Woodrow was correct in assuming the woman across the table was there to kill him.

McKenzie firmly believed, like on a fundamental level, that the cleanest assassination would be the one that takes place at random to someone random and by someone random. The borderline cosmic accident. Of course, no one paid for random people to randomly die, so McKenzie’s profession took a little extra finesse.

“So, Claire,” Woodrow said, swallowing a bite of side salad, “what exactly does a freelance writer actually do? On the day-to-day?”

“Depends on the day,” McKenzie said, smiling. “I really just go where the money takes me.”

Woodrow chuckled, still tip-toeing through things. If he was correct in his assumption—look at her, how could he be wrong?—then actually it was his money that Claire was following.

“Was it money that brought you here?” he decided to just ask. “Because despite the bottle of red, a freelance writer has to make more than a failed painter.”

Though he had not been failing of late, had he?

McKenzie sipped on a glass of said wine, staining her already plum-red lips.

“You think I’m here because of money?” she asked. She was indeed, that was true. If she was successful in killing this man, the pay could cover her expenses for over a year. One single night of work for a year of luxury. Many would consider themselves too good for such a trade, but ask those same people again as they drove the hour home from their dead end jobs. “You don’t think that’s insulting?”

“Look at you and look at me. And that’s not to say a young woman like yourself and an older gentleman couldn’t develop a caring and genuine relationship but—”

The waiter interrupted with their entrees. Woodrow had opted for the chicken instead of the salmon. Whether or not this woman was here to kill him, keeping one’s breath fresh was common courtesy on any date.

They thanked the waiter. McKenzie took a bite of her pasta and twirled her fork at Woodrow to continue.

“You were saying.”

“Perhaps if we had met at some sort of volunteer outing. And you could have seen that despite his balding and fiscally poor career, the old artist had a heart of gold. I could see us ending up here in that case. But when you connect with someone on a dating app, the only things you know about them are that they’re balding and have a fiscally poor career.”

McKenzie chewed, thinking. “So you’re currently tied for the most times a date has used the word ‘fiscally’ with me in one night.”

“Now I’ll be disappointed if I don’t break the record all together.”

Woodrow paused in cutting his chicken. He had bought a whole bottle of wine to ensure it came corked and untampered. He could not be as sure with the chicken. Perhaps this woman knew the chef? Knew what to sprinkle on chicken to kill an unsuspecting old man hours later? He was correct in both of these assumptions as well.

“It only counts if you use the word naturally,” McKenzie said.

“Of course.” The chicken smelled great and Woodrow was hungry.

“You plan to pay, right?” she asked.

“And you don’t think that’s insulting?”

“Do you plan to pay?”

“You got me.”

McKenzie nodded. “You older gentlemen always do. So. What do I get? A free meal and a nice bottle of wine. And you—” she winked “—get an hour or so to prove your heart of gold.”

Woodrow smiled. “Or put on a show of it at least.”

“If even a bad person acts good enough,” McKenzie said, shrugging, “it gets to a point that they might just be good.”

“The list of counter arguments to that point is endless.” Woodrow held up a forked piece of chicken. “You want a bite?”

“I was worried you wouldn’t ask.”

McKenzie’s dress was sleeveless with a high neckline. The black fabric shimmered as she leaned forward to pluck the chicken from the fork with her teeth.

Woodrow waited for her to swallow before taking a bite himself. He didn’t seize up and die, not right away anyway. Was he wrong about Claire? He had offered a lot of money for the job. He had been promised an all out professional. And all the other professionals had been disappointing so far.

“Okay then,” McKenzie said, “give me an example.”

“Of?”

“A counter argument.”

“Well, a bad person could act good for a short period of time. A date for example. Just to be bad right after.”

“Are they good on the date because they want the other person to have a nice time? Or because they want to see the other person naked?”

Woodrow could not help but imagine just that. He felt his cheeks grow warm and did a poor job of hiding it.

“Careful, Woodrow,” McKenzie said and looked him up and down as if she could see through the table, see through everything. “I can do that too.”

Woodrow raised a glass to that. “Let’s say he’s good on the date because he wants her to have a nice time because that increases the odds of him seeing her naked.”

“The subject is a ‘he’ now?”

“Let’s say.”

“And why do you think she is there? Perhaps she has a nice date and still doesn’t remove a stitch of clothing. Or let’s say the date is underwhelming but she really wanted someone to see her naked regardless.”

“Sure. Let’s say all of that. But is he a good person if he’s only good to get what he wants?”

“That’s all anyone does. Even the best of us are good people because they want to be good people.”

As he watched her lips move, an image started to form in Woodrow’s mind. He recognized what this was. Every painting he had ever created had started from a similar seed. There was no guarantee that it would become more than this initial image. But ever since he started paying professionals for these… let’s call them reminders of life’s impermanence, Woodrow had turned more seeds into paintings than ever before. Sold a few of them too.

Something red, plum-red, and warm, deep enough to dive into. Dipped. Dripping. Not quite an ocean but oh so close.

“Okay,” he said. “But I think I’ve made the mistake of proposing a reasonably decent person as an example. Or at least someone in the middle. But let’s say our gentleman dresses up, wines, dines, opens doors, asks the right questions. And yes indeed, for her own equally valid reasons, she decides to sleep with him. And they find her three days later in the hotel room’s bath tub. Throat slit and all that.”

McKenzie wiped her mouth with the napkin leaving plum-red lip marks. “Well, that is a lot to think about.” She looked at the table as if examining the very essence of the date. “So I’m going to use the lady’s room, and, uh, I’m going to get back to you on that.”

Woodrow sighed as she left and took her purse with her. He had been on enough dates to know that meant the date was over.

Maybe that was a good thing. This painting was twisting itself from his mind. Deep simmering red. Volcanic? No, not quite. He needed his brushes. If Claire had left, then she wasn’t there to kill him.

He didn’t want to die tonight. You could say this was a sort of buyer’s remorse. But that was the whole point, huh? No one wanted to die. But whenever he put himself close to death, he found he did a much better job of living. If he stopped now, he feared he might not be able to paint again. Certainly nothing that would sell.

Woodrow ordered a coffee. He would drink it and call a cab. He would at least be able to paint tonight if nothing else. And he would work like a mad dog, lucky to be alive.

In the bathroom, McKenzie made a call after checking that the stalls were empty. Then in the mirror she applied fresh lipstick. It was her favorite shade, a custom blend of maroon and a splash of purple. Which suited her skin perfectly, if you asked her. She had, of course, long ago developed an immunity to the poison that added the purple shade to the lipstick.

When she returned to the table Woodrow looked surprised to see her.

“So,” she said, sitting down, “I’m assuming that we’re assuming our hypothetical gentleman doesn’t have a justifiable reason for killing people?”

“There’s no such thing,” Woodrow said, leaning forward. He found himself excited that she had returned.

There were dark, violent edges around this forming painting of his. Something smoldering just beyond his imagined canvas.

He watched Claire’s face for a reaction. He was nervous.

“Maybe,” McKenzie finally said. “It would definitely be hard to justify this guy.” And she meant it. McKenzie had a strong distaste for the sex pervert variety of killers. And leaving a body to rot in a hotel tub was unprofessional and messy. “But what if it’s the only bad thing he’s ever done, this killing his date thing.”

There’s no way she could have slipped something in his coffee, right? And any discomfort in his bowels was just poor digestion. And both of her hands were above the table. And maybe Claire could lunge over the table and put the dinner knife in his chest. But it wasn’t likely around this many people.

Woodrow reminded himself to stay vigilant. He needed to set this new painting free.

“That would be a lot to excuse,” Woodrow said.

“If you can be extreme, let me do the same.” McKenzie twirled the wine in her glass. “So he kills his date but before that he gives all his money to poor orphans and his life to successfully curing cancer. Which way does his scale tip?”

Woodrow laughed, and she smiled back lightly. Despite the needle of fear in his side, Woodrow was enjoying himself. If Claire was not here to kill him, Woodrow might actually begin to like her.

“Who’s the judge of this whole situation?” he said. “God?”

“Us,” McKenzie said. “Woodrow and Claire.”

‘Us’ was a fun word when it came from her plum-red lips.

“Then I think it would matter if you and I are good people.”

“Are you a good person, Woodrow?”

“I try to be.”

She was looking so deep into his eyes. “Is just trying good enough?”

Woodrow shrugged. “Maybe my soul should be judged by a man and beautiful woman on a first date.”

“Getting a bit meta for my taste.”

Woodrow was sinking into those eyes. He wanted to paint something if only for those eyes to see it.

“What about you?” Woodrow said. “Good? Bad?”

“So, see, now we’ve circled back all the way around,” McKenzie said.

“How so?”

“That’s what the first few dates are for. We’re trying to decide if the other person is a good person. Heart of gold and all that. And….”

“And?”

“Wouldn’t it just take the fun out of it if I gave it away now?”

“I guess. But that means I might need a second date to figure you out.”

McKenzie didn’t have to force a smile. “I see your reasoning. I guess we have no other choice.”

“For now, dessert?”

Woodrow learned that given the right lips, someone could look stunning while eating a slice of french silk pie. That even the chocolate left on the lips could somehow look perfect given the right shade of red. The pie he knew was sweet, and Woodrow wondered if the lips had a similar taste.

And this painting had something like that too. This alluring and delectable, melting red. There was something at the center of the painting he could not put a finger on, something clenching and pulsing. He needed to be with his brushes and canvas.

But when she said she had an early morning and had to go, Woodrow didn’t want the night to end.

“Let’s share a cab?” he said.

“I would hope so, but don’t think you’re coming inside. I need to be certain you’re not a serial killer first.”

When the bill hit the table, McKenzie made a dramatic look of disgust at it. Woodrow laughed as he paid the bill. He helped with her coat, catching a breath of her perfume.

As they got into the taxi together, Woodrow’s thoughts were far from hired killers and dull dinner knives. In the dark back seat of the cab, he thought of twirling red paints, something warm worth sinking into. And when a passing street light lit up Claire’s face, he thought of her lips.

The ride was filled with the quiet whispers of two romantics sharing the space with a driver. Everything sort of an inside joke that was simultaneously just for them and things the driver had heard millions of times before. The ride went too quickly.

When they parked, Woodrow rushed to open her door and help her out of the car. Woodrow walked McKenzie to the front door of her apartment building while the taxi waited. Her lips glowed in the dark.

“So a second date?”

“Definitely. I’ll call you.”

“Have a good night then.”

Then that terrible but necessary silence where each considers the other and what the other is thinking and what they want.

Woodrow was too old for wasting time. And he was so close to her lips. So close to that plum-red.

“I want to kiss you,” he said.

“I want you to kiss me,” McKenzie said. She could taste the sweet poison on her own lips. One little peck would be enough, but she could see in his eyes this would be more than a peck.

Woodrow on the other hand was simply glad he had skipped the salmon. He took a step closer.

She put a hand on his chest. “But that’s what the second date is for.”

Woodrow sighed through his smile. “Next time then.”

“We’ll have to see.” She winked.

Woodrow slid back into the taxi, thinking of red and silk and molten lava. McKenzie smiled at him from her door and waved. Like a little boy, he smiled and waved back.

“Nice night, Woodrow?” the taxi driver said.

“What?”

The driver turned back in his seat, holding a shotgun and shot Woodrow in the chest.

McKenzie saw the flash and heard the bang. She looked around to make sure no one else did. Her phone rang. It was the number she had called earlier. She did not answer. It only served as confirmation. The job was done.

The random killing was by far the most discrete form of assassination. But a close second was the assassination you had someone else commit. She smiled, thinking about the money she would find in her account the next morning.

Woodrow sank back into his seat as the cab drove away. He felt warm. He felt far from solid. The lights of the city lit up what remained of his torso. Everything was red, a deep, nearly purple red. There was a smokey smell to everything. The skin around the wound was dark and jagged. He seemed to be melting into watery lava. It was a whirlpool he could sink into, drown in. It was hard to breathe after all. And at the center was the missing piece. The clenching, pulsing, beating missing piece, right there in his opened chest. Beating. Slowing.