“I’ve spent my life avoiding you.” started Jerry slowly, his voice seemingly sober.
"I’ve spent your life avoiding you, too.”
“And here we are. I thought this would be more… I don’t know, terrifying.”
"People only fear the idea of me. As you see, I’m not as scary as one might think.”
“ ‘Men fear Death, as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other.’ ” recited Jerry.
“Francis Bacon.”
“Very good.”
He shrugged, “I try to keep up-to-date with stories about me. Wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so. Not many stories written about me though.”
“ ‘Fame means millions of people have the wrong idea of who you are.’ ”
“I don’t know that one.”
“Erica Jong. 1942.”
“Right. The feminist.”

Jerry looked at him from the corner of his eye, momentarily analyzing the mysterious man. He wore dark jeans and a green sweatshirt. His hair was curly. He smelled of gasoline.

“You’re not dressed for the part of taking someone’s life.”
“How should one dress for such an occasion, you think?”
“Oh, you know. The scythe, black hood, robe – the works. It gives a better impression. Shows them you’re serious.”
“People have surprisingly little interest in how I dress when their life is at stake. Besides, I’d never be able to order a drink wearing those things.”
“Want another?”
“I’m good, thanks. You go ahead.”
“Cindy…” Jerry lifted his empty pint, and tipped it slightly toward her. She nodded, picking up a freshly washed glass.