"You here every Tuesday?"
Keanu glanced up from his basket. A woman—mid-thirties, confident smile, too much perfume—was folding a neon green tank top like it was a secret weapon.
"Most Tuesdays," he said.
"I knew it," she grinned, tapping her folded shirt. "I don't believe in coincidence. I believe in shared laundry schedules and fate."
Keanu smiled politely, tossing a sock into the dryer. "Fate's got a weird sense of timing."
"So does this machine. You ever hit 'delicate' and still lose a bra? It's like it eats dignity for breakfast."
"Can't relate," Keanu said, "I'm more of a boxers-and-regret guy."
She laughed way too hard. "God, you're funny. And young. What are you, twenty-two?"
"Twenty."
"Ah, danger zone. You're either heartbreak or arrested development."
"That's fair."
She leaned closer, voice dropping like she was telling him a secret. "You smell like cinnamon. I like that."
Keanu blinked. "It's dryer sheets."
"Still counts. I'm Dani, by the way."
"Keanu."
"Like—"
"Yes, like the actor. I know."
"You don't look like him."
"That's usually how it goes."
The machine beeped. Keanu gathered his laundry. She lingered.
"You got plans after this, Cinnamon?"
"Just heading home."
"Well, if you ever wanna share a load—of laundry, or existential dread—I'm around."
Keanu gave her a small nod, that friendly one people give when they're already halfway out the door.
---
She was digging in her car for keys. Keanu was walking past, earbuds in. She turned and waved, surprised.
"Hey! Again!"
He smiled, slowed down.
*"You forgot your fabric softener," she joked.
"I never use any," he said.
And then, without breaking stride, Keanu stabbed her in the neck.
Blood sprayed against the side of her hatchback. She gargled a sound, collapsing onto the asphalt like a dropped towel.
Keanu sighed, adjusted the strap of his laundry bag, and kept walking and whistling.
"Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby, let me know
Girl I'm gonna show you how to do it and we start real slow."