Requiem

What would you do if I died?
Don’t be macabre.
Under the covers I rub your leg, long and lean, and pinch your calf. You probably wouldn’t even care.
Of course I’d care. You fold yourself out of bed and walk to the window. You pry open my blinds and peek outside.
Hey, I say, I didn’t mean to offend you.
You didn’t offend me.
I put your pillow over my face and sigh.


I’d be sad if you died.
Are we still on this?
I stare at the freckles littering your back. I draw an invisible line from freckle to freckle, a connect-the-dots of freckle constellations.
I just want you to know that I’d be sad.
I know you’d be sad. I hear the frustration in your voice, and with my finger outline my imaginary lines. Your back is cool to the touch.
You are a galaxy, far, far away.


That morning I make pancakes that you don’t eat.
I’m watching my cholesterol, you say as I stuff a syrup-laden spoonful into my mouth.
I wonder if this is a hint that I’m getting fat, and I try to ignore the little pudge of stomach that forms as I sit at the breakfast table.
You only live once, I offer with a wave of my fork, feigning lightness. You take a sip from your water bottle.
Did someone die that I don’t know about? You’re really starting to creep me out.
I shake my head. Rolling your eyes, you reach across the table and steal a bite of pancake.


After you leave, I write my obituary.
After you leave, I try to write my obituary.
After you leave, I think about writing my obituary.


I wrote my obituary, I say when I pick you up from work a few days later.
Jesus Christ.
Well, not really, I amend. But I thought about what I’d say.
You say nothing, but instead roll down my car window and light a cigarette.
What do you think you’d say in my obituary? I ask as I make a right turn as the yellow light turns red and a car honks. You glance at me.
I don’t know, I don’t think about these things.
I wish you would.


That night as you take a shower, I lie in bed and think about my funeral.
I would have you scatter my ashes somewhere pretty, like a garden.
Or maybe at the beach.
My friends would go out for drinks afterwards and tell funny stories about the various ways I’ve touched their lives. Then they would cry big, gut-wracking tears and hug one another for comfort.
I wonder if you would cry at my funeral.
I listen as you turn off the shower. You start to hum a popular song with a forgettable name.
Still humming, you enter the bedroom. You shoot me a smile while you pull on plaid boxers.
I smile back and start to hum along.
Together in chorus we drown out the realization that no, you would not cry.