Farewell, My Love

I’m looking for a proper grave for my beloved. Her cadaver is on my shoulder, a hefty weight. I use a shovel as my cane. The coffee aroma from a corner shop engulfs me, awaking hunger. lean the carcass against the wall—you’ll wait for me, won’t you, my beloved? The waitress fills my cup without even asking. I order bacon and eggs. Reminiscences of our life together flash before my eyes as I sip the coffee and wait for the food to arrive. An Asian man approaches, emerging seemingly from nowhere. “Say, is it your stiff out there?” “No. Mine is right here.” I point at myself. “Don’t be a wiseass with me,” he advises. “The little lady out there— she yours?” “Yes,” I admit reluctantly. “What happened to her?” “She died.” The man loses any interest in my situation, as if he had expected a more unusual case. He walks over to the counter to study the menu. I stare at him, seeking in his eyes a reflection of my beloved—an image stolen from a stranger’s perception, a different view of my lover’s familiar image. My interlocutor walks out without ordering. My food arrives. I eat hastily and without due pleasure. My beloved’s demise has spoiled my appetite. “Listen, do you want to bring her in?” the cook offers from behind the counter, his grill steaming with provisions. He’s elderly, bald. His smile is genuine. “She’s dead,” I explain. “I know she’s dead. Still, don’t you think she might be lonely out there all by herself? You never know.” “I work a twelve-hour shift; she’s used to being on her own.” “Oh, well then. Suit yourself.” We are silent as I finish my coffee. The brown counter matches the brown walls. I dig a few coins out of my pocket. “What happened to her?” the cook asks. “She looks pretty dead.” “She is dead,” I say. “I know she’s dead. But she looks more than just dead.”