into some sort of hammock. She noticed him immediately, and when no look of distress came over her, it perplexed Ralph all the more.
“So,” he said, plainly.
“Ralph,” she said, brow furrowed. “What did you leave behind?”
He stuck out his hand toward the aging youngster. He angled it just a bit, the way younger men do. Not quite fist-bumping, but akin to that. A more professional version of that. The man shook his hand, and both men glanced at Candi’s face for an introduction. When none came, they introduced themselves to one another.
“Guy.”
“Ralph.”
“Ralph,” Candi said. “I think there’s something you should know.”
Ralph squeezed shut his eyes, set his jaw. Here it is. Her tapered fingers grazed his arm hairs. He smelled her musky oil.
“Guy is my advisor.”
He heard advisor, but his brain, his linear, left-hemisphered cognition turned advisor into lover, and sent fight-or-flight chemicals blasting along his neural pathways.
Before he could untangle his response, he heard, “He is my, well, my death coach.”
Guy’s hand was now gripping his shoulder—a grim reaper claw, an undertaker’s practiced steadying.
Ralph opened his eyes. “Your what?”
“I have a recurring condition. I’ve stopped treatment.”
“Candi is working hard to leave the physical world having made the most of her gifts,” the death coach offered.
The fluorescent tube lighting in the hallway accentuated the pallor Ralph suddenly saw on his girlfriend’s ruby-pierced face. “Treatment,” he managed. “What gifts?”
“Please,” said, Candi, “let’s go back into the apartment.”
Ralph followed Guy and Candi, careful to stay behind them as a child who’d misbehaved might follow disappointed parents. He hesitated before crossing the threshold into the concrete box he’d come to know so well. As soon as he entered the space, the long table he’d leaned against while drilling the length of his erection into his dying girlfriend just the night before loomed before him. The top of it was hinged on one side and now yawned open, and he could see, immediately, that this piece of furniture was created to be neither table nor carnal facilitator.
“Can I get you a drink, Ralph?” Candi said.
He shook his head, and, feeling a growing weakness in his legs, he melted into one of Candi’s less comfortable chairs.
Guy whipped out a business card and thrust it towards Ralph. CONSCIOUS DEATH the card exclaimed, by Guy LeGrange.
It’s definitely black, Ralph thought, and this thought accompanied the image of a thick, steel wall, much like the walls that held this building together.
“I owe you an explanation,” Candi said, sitting down next to him, gently massaging the top of his arm. “When I met you that day running, my heart just curled in on itself. He’s the one I’ve been looking for, it said.”
“You’ve heard of the bucket list?” said the creator of CONSCIOUS DEATH. “Candi and I explored her gifts, and made a list too. Only, we don’t think of it as a bucket list, really. More like the last chance to plant and tend a garden, which can be harvested after she passes.”
Ralph heard the words, and they sounded good, like words you’d use to soften a firing, or an audit. But where he went with them was across the river, to the Parlor, where his mother, his blind, toothless and deaf mother, was most likely picking at a congealing bowl of oatmeal with the tine of a soiled fork.
His mother was the one who should be seeking the counsel of this Guy LeGrange, not this vibrant, calico vixen sitting next to him.
“Just one question,” said Ralph. “And please, answer truthfully.”
“You want to know if you were a mercy case?” preempted Candi.
Ralph glared at the rude top of the handmade coffin. “Was I?”
“When people truly embrace death,” Candi said, “there is no mercy.”
The floor-to-ceiling windows revealed so much of the landscape. There was that mountain, the
“So,” he said, plainly.
“Ralph,” she said, brow furrowed. “What did you leave behind?”
He stuck out his hand toward the aging youngster. He angled it just a bit, the way younger men do. Not quite fist-bumping, but akin to that. A more professional version of that. The man shook his hand, and both men glanced at Candi’s face for an introduction. When none came, they introduced themselves to one another.
“Guy.”
“Ralph.”
“Ralph,” Candi said. “I think there’s something you should know.”
Ralph squeezed shut his eyes, set his jaw. Here it is. Her tapered fingers grazed his arm hairs. He smelled her musky oil.
“Guy is my advisor.”
He heard advisor, but his brain, his linear, left-hemisphered cognition turned advisor into lover, and sent fight-or-flight chemicals blasting along his neural pathways.
Before he could untangle his response, he heard, “He is my, well, my death coach.”
Guy’s hand was now gripping his shoulder—a grim reaper claw, an undertaker’s practiced steadying.
Ralph opened his eyes. “Your what?”
“I have a recurring condition. I’ve stopped treatment.”
“Candi is working hard to leave the physical world having made the most of her gifts,” the death coach offered.
The fluorescent tube lighting in the hallway accentuated the pallor Ralph suddenly saw on his girlfriend’s ruby-pierced face. “Treatment,” he managed. “What gifts?”
“Please,” said, Candi, “let’s go back into the apartment.”
Ralph followed Guy and Candi, careful to stay behind them as a child who’d misbehaved might follow disappointed parents. He hesitated before crossing the threshold into the concrete box he’d come to know so well. As soon as he entered the space, the long table he’d leaned against while drilling the length of his erection into his dying girlfriend just the night before loomed before him. The top of it was hinged on one side and now yawned open, and he could see, immediately, that this piece of furniture was created to be neither table nor carnal facilitator.
“Can I get you a drink, Ralph?” Candi said.
He shook his head, and, feeling a growing weakness in his legs, he melted into one of Candi’s less comfortable chairs.
Guy whipped out a business card and thrust it towards Ralph. CONSCIOUS DEATH the card exclaimed, by Guy LeGrange.
It’s definitely black, Ralph thought, and this thought accompanied the image of a thick, steel wall, much like the walls that held this building together.
“I owe you an explanation,” Candi said, sitting down next to him, gently massaging the top of his arm. “When I met you that day running, my heart just curled in on itself. He’s the one I’ve been looking for, it said.”
“You’ve heard of the bucket list?” said the creator of CONSCIOUS DEATH. “Candi and I explored her gifts, and made a list too. Only, we don’t think of it as a bucket list, really. More like the last chance to plant and tend a garden, which can be harvested after she passes.”
Ralph heard the words, and they sounded good, like words you’d use to soften a firing, or an audit. But where he went with them was across the river, to the Parlor, where his mother, his blind, toothless and deaf mother, was most likely picking at a congealing bowl of oatmeal with the tine of a soiled fork.
His mother was the one who should be seeking the counsel of this Guy LeGrange, not this vibrant, calico vixen sitting next to him.
“Just one question,” said Ralph. “And please, answer truthfully.”
“You want to know if you were a mercy case?” preempted Candi.
Ralph glared at the rude top of the handmade coffin. “Was I?”
“When people truly embrace death,” Candi said, “there is no mercy.”
The floor-to-ceiling windows revealed so much of the landscape. There was that mountain, the
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