In the diner, she wept.
“I’m pregnant with your child,” she confessed to me through tears.
“Oh, well, that’s alright, I suppose,” I replied nervously.
“But I’m also dating a serial killer. And he knows about the baby. And about us. And he’s on his way here.”
“Ah. Well, in that case, I… I think I’ll be heading off now,” I said, backing out the door.
“No, don’t go. Do you hate me? Is that it?” I reassured her that that wasn’t it.
Marcos (the serial killer) found me as I was trying frantically to unlock my bicycle. He wore a bowtie and a six-gun. I did not even make it to the edge of the parking lot.