Date with Death
Ever since his wife of 50 years, Nancy, passed away in 2010, Thomas had lived a life of quiet solitude in the little red-brick house he once shared with his bride. He spent most days hobbling back and forth between the kitchen and the sofa, breaking the pattern once in a blue moon to clear away the beer cans, while the old television, whose screen had long since had ghost-images of football players burned into it, played on like some sort of background noise to Thomas's monotonous reverie.
But tonight was different; tonight held a bone-chillingly exciting opportunity, and Thomas was sure to dress accordingly. He donned the slick black suit he wore at his granddaughter Trish's second wedding, and combed back his wispy white hair with painstaking care in the dusty hallway mirror. After examining his handiwork with the precision of a forensic pathologist, he let out a pleased sort of humph, starting towards the door with a skip in his step he hadn't experienced in decades. Upon glancing at his watch, he cried out in dismay. "Heavens to Betsy!" He was late for his date!
It was raining outside, but he wasn't about to allow a little water to ruin his big day. He scurried back indoors to grab his umbrella and opened it up for the short journey from his front door to her car, an inky Cadillac, with black velvet curtains obscuring the back windows from view. Thomas couldn't see anyone in the driver's seat, but as he continued to stare, one of the heavy curtains peeled back, and his date's thin, white hand beckoned for him to join her in the back seat.
Thomas obliged, and after a long, drawn-out struggle to close his sopping umbrella, he shut the door behind him. Turning to his date, he smiled apologetically. "Sorry to keep a lady waiting!"
"It's nothing," she waved away the offense. "Are you ready?"
Thomas nodded, and she signalled to her phantom chauffer. The car began to move, silently, smoothly, unlike any vehicle Thomas had ever been in. "Quiet car," he said, marveling at how silkily the driver navigated the pot-hole-ridden streets of central Chicago. It was as if someone pulled the plug on a rebellious teenager's stereo as it blasted rock and roll, leaving only blessed silence behind.
"The world is quieter," she replied in a voice both raspy and gossamer-smooth that sent Thomas's head a-spin. "Gotta keep up with the times."
Their chosen venue was a quiet park with stone tables and wooden chairs. It was a rather unknown gem in a world so obsessed with bright lights and stage shows - a quiet place for a quiet affair. Thomas exited the lady's car and held the door open for her and his umbrella up to protect her hooded head. She flashed him the ghost of a smile as she drifted out of the Cadillac with the grace of a liquid shadow.
They passed over a small manmade river on a quaint stone bridge littered with patches of moss and wild lilies and puddles, and a silent waiter dressed in an all black rain poncho and a spiffy bowtie showed them to their table, rectangular and made of stone, conveniently placed under an awning to protect them from the rain. There was a single candle, ensconced in a glass jar, dead-centre on the table between Thomas and his date. The unlikely couple took their seats and a look at the menu.
"I'm feeling a bit dangerous tonight," she chuckled, almost immediately turning her menu over to the dessert side. "Let's ditch dinner and eat dessert first. What do you think of the Chocolate Death?" She placed her menu down on the stone table and pointed with one skeletal finger to a chocolate dessert that looked like it was literally melting. It looked equal parts delicious and terrifying.
"Sounds heavenly," Thomas replied jovially and she ordered for the two of them. Thomas hadn't felt this young since, well, he was a young man. Their desserts arrived, and the couple dug in.
After dessert, they talked and laughed for hours, and may have even flirted a bit, until the rain at last slowed to a drizzle. Finally, she asked, "are you ready to go? Because I am. I had one hell of a time, dear Thomas, but I'm afraid I have more work to do."
"I am," Thomas agreed. "And I understand. I'll pay."
"Oh no, allow me," she argued. "I insist."
"As you wish." Thomas leaned back in his seat He sighed deeply and closed his eyes contentedly as his date summoned their wraith-like waiter.
"Excuse me," Death crooned, dabbing at her ghastly face with a gauzy napkin. "May I have his bill, please?"
In loving memory of
Thomas Blair Parker
April 28th, 1940 - August 20th, 2016