The man didn't look like what Charlie expected. Then again, of course, what exactly was a "thought assassin" supposed to look like? It's not an occupation that lends itself to being visually obvious.

The man's hair was long, jet black, tied back behind him in a ponytail. He wore a black coat with a purple quilted lining that was so dark to be almost black itself. The black leather gloves were off and sitting on the diner booth's table.

"You understand, I hope," the man said, "that once done, this cannot be undone. What we're discussing here…is a bell you cannot unring."

Charlie simply nodded.

"Very well. What do you want me to remove?" the man asked. "Tell me so I'll know what I'm looking for when I go inside." He sipped from his coffee. "I warn you: don't leave off details because they might be embarrassing or because you think I might be repulsed or shocked. If I were to remove the wrong memories because of information you neglected to provide me, well…" He shrugged and put his coffee down.

Charlie took that as his cue. "My wife," he began. "She was in love before she met me. The man's name was Jacob, and they were college sweethearts. They were…very close. Soulmates, she said. And they had…planned on getting married." He stopped. This was harder than he thought.

"Go on," the man urged.

"The plan was for them to finish graduate school and then get married. She finished. He never did. He…died crossing the street when a sixteen year old kid blew past a red light and struck him dead on. Silly, stupid accident.

"She moved on with her life. Eventually, she met me and we went out for a long time, and married. I don't doubt that she loves me, but…she's never gotten over him. I saw…well, I…"

"Leave out nothing," the man stated again.

"I saw her computer…she had left it on one night with a website up. It was a message board for people that were dealing with…well, feelings for people they had lost which were interfering with the lives they had now. She posted how she loved the man she married, but she still missed Jacob and how she still, after all this time, could only take one day at a time."

The man waited, and when Charlie didn't offer anything else, he said, "And what do you want me to do with Jacob?"

Charlie rubbed at his eyes for a moment, uncertain of whether or not he could go through with it. But he knew he had to. "Make him go away. I want her to forget him. Forget they were ever together. She'd be…I think she'd be much happier if she just didn't remember him."

The man nodded and finished his coffee. "Pass me the money under the table," he said in a low voice.

Charlie brought the envelope from his pocket and handed it forward, under the relative secrecy of the formica tabletop. He felt the man's hand take it from him. "It's not…"

"A lot of money?" the man asked. "No, I suppose it isn't. I don't do this for the money, actually. I'm an artist." And then he made to stand up. "It will be done within the next three days."

"Wait, don't you…need a picture of him or something?" Charlie asked.

The man didn't stop. Next he was standing by the booth. "Not in the least. A love like that will make him stand out in her head like a beacon. You'll receive the proof the job is done within the week."

And the man walked out without a look back. Charlie left money on the table and went home.

He spent the next three days in a kind of fidgety agony. He kept looking for some Great Change to occur in Beth, but nothing manifested itself. She still had the same smile and the same ongoing sadness that he could see slouching about behind it.

It was on the fourth day, however, that something did show itself.

He came home from work that day and called about the house for Beth, but she was nowhere to be found. Finally, he found her in the guest wing of the house, in the bathroom. She was sitting on the commode with one of the blue towels draped over her head. She was sobbing.

When he asked her what was wrong, she couldn't tell him. This was a change: before it was always the fact that she wouldn't tell him: but here, he knew that she simply couldn't. She told him she just felt extremely sad and didn't know why. He did his best to comfort her and finally she went to bed early.

The next two days when he came home, he found her in bed, asleep. She had found some old prescription medicine, back when she had a terrible time sleeping–years back–and started herself back on them. She would wake in time to come down and eat something, then she would give him a half-hearted hug or some other token of affection and return to the bedroom. And take another dose.

On the third day, he came home to find the mail on the kitchen table. And a manila padded envelope that had been torn open. The contents were missing, and an examination of the outside showed no address or writing of any kind.

Going up to the bedroom, he heard the music.

He followed the music to the upstairs den and found Beth sitting on the floor in front of the stereo system there. She had the CD player on and was listening, enraptured.

She didn't even notice he was there until he was halfway into the room. When she turned, tears were streaming down her face. Still, inexplicably, she was smiling. The joy she was radiating was to an extent that he found very disquieting. "Oh, Charles, this is…what is this? I found it in the mailbox. The envelope didn't say anything, the disc doesn't say anything, and there's just the one track on here. But, oh, listen to it!"

And he did. It was a piano piece, albeit capably composed and played, and that was all. Slow moving and exhibiting some of the same happy and sad together characteristics that Beth was now.

When Beth turned back to the CD player and watched it start the track again–she had set the disc to automatically repeat–he remembered. Not the fact that the disc was the proof the man had said to expect. That he successfully leapfrogged over.

I don't do this for the money, actually. I'm an artist.

Beth ejected the disc and put it back into its non-descript jewel case. "I think it's wonderful. You know the songs that just…fit with you? When you hear them the first time they're a favorite…and you don't even know why?"

He realized that was the longest string of words she had spoken to him in months. "I…think I've felt that once or twice."

She smiled again, though the tears were still streaming. "I want to take this with me to my study. Listen to it there." And she walked past him to the door.

"Beth," he called after her, and she did stop. But she did not turn around.

"I just want you to know…everything I've ever done," he said, "is because I love you. You know that, right?"

She looked back over her shoulder–still with that sad smile, though more distant now somehow–and then she turned away.