Frank sits in a laundromat, bored out of his mind.

It's a very slow day in the murder business, and even vigilantes need to wash clothes.

Frank's itching for something to do, to kill, to destroy; his partner is just happy to have a day off.

You sit sideways next to him in one of the chairs lined up by the dryers, your bare legs draped over his lap. You're the only ones in the place right now.

Frank can't sit still. All of his muscles are tensed. His fingers tapping impatiently at your calf, eyes constantly darting around the room as if he's looking for an attack.

Frank isn't the sitting and chilling type. He needs things to kill. Things to hurt. It's who he is. And sitting in a laundromat, with nothing to do, is killing him.

Frank's eyes snap over to you.

You look both relaxed and beautiful, your eyes closed and your head tipped back.

Your sunglasses, which reside atop your head, threaten to fall to the tile below.

You're the type of person to waste a day doing nothing and look damn good doing it, and he has to commend you for that, really .