So you’re telling me you don’t believe in love?

Nope. I’m cynical.

You think that helps?

In the job we do? Maybe not, but are you surprised?

No, I suppose not. But you can’t just not believe in love, it’s like not believing in fish. You don’t need to eat it but its still there. Plenty of people are in love.

Plenty of people kill themselves too.

There is silence for a while as we walk down the tree lined avenue, and I look at my partner, taller than me, his pace easy as we stroll. I take in the narrowing of his eyes, the set of his shoulders, tense as we walk.

I believe in fish.

So you’re saying you believe in fish but not in love?

Yeah.

Why is that?

You can see fish.

You can see love.

Liar.

No, true. That couple over there, holding hands smiling, the way they look at each other, that’s love.

No that’s sex.

That is not sex.

It’s an early stage of foreplay, don’t be so pedantic.

You really are cynical.

Didn’t I say so?

At least you can admit it.

You see Sao, you just don’t want to admit it. You don’t really believe in love either.

I do so.

He stops and turns to me, his dark eyes completely unreadable. I could say that they were narrowed against the harshly slanting autumn shin that shines through the leaves and the gaps in the houses. I won’t. He always seems to wear that same expression.

Prove it.

What, love?

Yeah, prove love.

Alright. Someone gives their life for someone else’s, that’s love.

No, that’s martyrdom.

A woman works three jobs to feed her kid, that’s love.

No, that’s the human condition. The seed must survive.

You’re too negative.

No, I’m just real. Love isn’t real. You can’t feel it, smell it, taste it, hold it. It’s just not there. Love is just necessity.

Emotion can’t be faked.

There are actors aren’t there?

I give up.

At the very most, love is comfort, the desire to be safe and warm and protected.

So you’re admitting it exists?

No. Like I told you, I’m cynical.

We stop before a large white house and my companion reaches into the back of his jeans.

So there is no such thing as love?

Not where I come from Sao.

There’s a woman in there with a husband and three kids, and she loves them deeply.

I know that Sao, but the moment I walk in that door, that woman is going to be dead. And by the time were done, so will the screaming children, and the husband.

Sao looks at me, knowing my words are true. This is our job.

You know why? Because some guy who she said she loved and didn’t paid us to.

I toss my partner a clip.

Your move.

See, it does pay to be cynical.