Talking About It

Most often than not, our get-togethers
conclude with talk of how we would each prefer
to die. One is almost certain that she would die by fire,
another a car accident, still another the big C, which
isn't that big anymore, we tell her. We shout our suppositions
at each other, explaining why ours is the best exit. Out
to impress, I tell them
that at the end of my life, I believe I will see a man standing, uncertain
at first, in my living room in the
dark, holding a gun in his right hand. He would ask me a
question that I would not know how to answer and my
ignorance compels him to shoot me.
My friends give an almost silent purr of approval. How romantic, they
say, as if this kind of end is worth seeing through. We sit quietly
for awhile, each lost in our private fears.
If this was a night for honesty, we would
tell each other how we suspect each of us would go. None
of those endings would include a death in October, or a man,
or a conversation, even. No one has the heart to
speak the truth when everyone is having such a good time.
The band launches into its last song and we know it as well as we know
what we'd all wear to our funerals. I let out a low sob at the exact time
the music ends and that lone sound extends in the night air, making
my friends laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.