Death came calling in a pinstripe suit and canotier hat, of the kind that nobody had worn for at least a hundred years. My narrow doorway framed his narrow frame, and he flashed grey teeth in a winsome smile.
He says, “But I’m dying,” like it’s the answer to everything, like he thinks I’ll disagree.
Six months pregnant, and I should have been happy. Six words to fire me, and I should have been angry. Instead, I drifted in a fugue. Spring faded, summer swelled, and our lives were falling apart.
English