DEATH’s Fetish

death_stuff

Sitting at the cafe, thinking. A child at the table beside me just crapped her pants. She is playing it cool, but we all know.

I decide not to be the one to blow up her spot.

DEATH sits across from me, her nose crinkled.

“Clean yourself up!” she snaps at the child, only a bit smaller than her. I roll my eyes. The waiter comes.

“Beer,” DEATH tells him. He frowns down at her, then looks at me. He says something in Russian. DEATH bursts out laughing.

“He thinks you’re my dad.”

She grabs the waiter by the hand, he goes pale. I can feel the cold coming off of him. DEATH lets go.

“Beer,” she repeats. He scampers off. She sighs.

“So, what’s up?”

I shrug. “I was bored.”

“You were bored, so you thought you’d talk to DEATH. God, you’re a cliché. What should we talk about? The meaning of life? When you’re going to die? Have at it.”

I shrug.

“Why did you come if you were just going to be a bitch?” I grumble.

DEATH shrugs. “I was bored.”

I lean back, trying to escape the childish smell.

“How does DEATH get bored?”

She snorts. “How do you get bored?”

“Boredom is good for you,” I say, as my mother used to say. DEATH eyes my third–maybe fourth–beer.

“Apparently,” she intones.

I sip away at it till it’s gone.

“What do you do for fun?” I ask, frowning.

“Watch people pick scabs.”

“What?” I cough on a bit of beer.

“What?”

“You watch people pick scabs?”

“Yeah.”

“Gross.”

“You’re gross. You pick your nose!”

“Sometimes!”

DEATH rolls her eyes. I drink. Her beer comes, I order another.

“Why scabs?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Well, I can’t get hurt, so I can’t have scabs, so I can’t pick them. It’s fascinating. It makes sense.”

“Huh.”

DEATH takes her beer down in one. I have to remind myself she is not actually a child. We are silent for a bit. I stare at her, thinking.

“What?” she snaps.

“Nothing, its just, I guess I was expecting something more morbid, to be honest.”

“Nope,” DEATH smiles, “scabs it is.”

“Weird, life is weird.”

DEATH chuckles. “You’re telling me.”

 

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