After She’s Gone
“What would you do if I died?” she asks, bending forwards to manually blow dry the freshly painted nails on her feet. They’re wriggling on my lap as she blows them softly, a rainbow of colour across the ten of them. They’re pristine, her feet that is, like perfect little porcelain casts. If I was a foot guy I’d get off on all this, but I’m not, so I don’t.
“Hmm,” I say, refusing to carefully consider my answer as much as she obviously wants me to. “Probably go see a prostitute.”
“Jerk,” she says with a grin, kicking me – very carefully – in the arm. I smile and continue watching Silent Hill with the volume turned down. Some chick just got all her skin ripped off without the horrific sound effects to go with it. The weather outside is sunny but not hot.
“Before that inevitability, I mean,” she continues, lying back so that her head is on the arm rest of the sofa. She’s looking up at the ceiling, thinking, no doubt, that it needs a new paint job. She’s recently begun her ritual of telling me how she’s going to fix this or that. In a few weeks I foresee me up there with a paintbrush, newspaper covering the floor, the furniture pushed through to the other room.
“Uh, before that?” I ask, “lets see. I guess before that I’d go to your funeral.”