This dame doesn’t.  Keeps trying to see my face better.  But she’ll hire me regardless.

Someone’s trying to kill her husband, and she’s trying to see if I’ll react to her cleavage.

I open the blinds a bit.

“What’s it about?”

“Love, death, suffering…  and bunnies.”

“Bunnies?”

“Gotta have bunnies!”

“Why?”

“They’re universal.”

“How so?”

“Bunnies never leave anyone indifferent.”

“Not true.  I don’t care about bunnies.  Your opera’s a lie!”

“Then you won’t mind if I kill this bunny, here.”

He’d forgotten their anniversary.  Every year.

He’d forget where he left his keys.

He decided to kill her.  That would show her.

At the crucial moment, he pulled out…

Nothing.

The gun was in his nightstand.

Or maybe in the car?

I forget.

“I can’t tell you.  Now stop asking.”

Actually, he could tell her, but what was in the box was a paradox.  If anyone else knew what was in the box, they would simply go mad.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Ah, no imagination, so you go with a classic.”

“Shut up!”

“Who sent you to kill me?”

“I’m not saying.”

“You’ll shoot me in a minute, so why do you care?”

“Rick Grimes sent me.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you know?”

“WHAT?”

“Grimes doesn’t pay.”