Forever After

Part Three

A spiral of cigar smoke snaked to the ceiling like a dancing cobra rising from its woven basket. It rose through the thickened air and dispersed against the yellowed paint, where a thin layer of grease had accumulated through years of casual neglect, spreading a cloud along the flattened surface.

The smoker coughed a watery cough, bringing a troublesome glob to his throat before sending it back down with a squeamish swallow. He placed the cigar into a nearby ashtray; wiped his mouth with the hairy back of a dirty hand; poked a finger into his nose, inspected the contents and then wiped them on his faded blue jeans.

He held the sports section of a national newspaper in his left hand, folded into a neat handheld scrunch and held off to one side. In his right hand he retrieved a greasy bacon sandwich from the plate in front of him and took a noisy bite without removing his eyes from the latest failures of the England football team.

Michael Holland sat on the other side of the diner, watching the hungry reader through tired eyes. It was early, he had been awake less than thirty minutes and along with his cup of coffee and slice of stale ginger cake, death was being served up for breakfast.

He watched the man take another large bite. A pool of grease infused with tomato sauce leaked out of the bread like blood from a gunshot wound. It ran a rivulet down his stubbled chin, heading towards his flabby neck before being wiped away by a grubby finger.

Michael felt sick. He’d had a few drinks the night before and had only just managed to settle his troublesome stomach. He didn’t mind dealing with death so early, but having to watch fat people eat and smoke their way to an early grave was unsettling.

“Is everything okay?”

Michael, slightly startled at the voice, quickly turned. A petite brunette waitress was standing over his table, a broad smile on her delicate face.

At the sight of her Michael’s face lit up. There was something so endearing and relaxing in her smile, something so sweet about the pinprick dimples on her cheek; so mesmerising in her green eyes, which reflected the light from the bright morning over Michael’s shoulder.

He had seen her in the back when he gave his order to a dole-faced woman with a pencil behind her ear and a stick up her arse. He heard her humming softly as she cooked up the breakfast currently clogging the arteries of the man opposite. He caught her smile then, thought he saw something there -- her eyes had lingered longer than simple customer curiosity required.

“Everything is fine,” Michael replied softly, holding eye contact as he described each syllable.

She beamed a wider smile, if that was possible. “If you need anything,” she trailed off, hooking a thumb over her shoulder towards the kitchen.

Michael nodded. She left a smile with him and then turned, heading straight back into the kitchen without acknowledging the other customer. Michael felt singled out, he felt sure there was a spark there. He watched her go; watched her walk. She made it to the kitchen and then spun on her heels, placing a supporting hand on the doorway as she shot a look over her shoulder, her eyes instantly meeting his. She smiled again, looked a little sheepish and then quickly turned away.

Michael turned back to the man eating the bacon sandwich. He was almost finished -- not paying attention to his food, too intent on reading his paper. Moistened crumbs stuck to his lips, grease pinned the stubble to his chin. He was taking bigger and bigger bites as he neared the end of the large bread bun, chewing less and less.

Michael shook his head in distaste and turned away. He could see the smiling brunette in the kitchen. Her slim body and petite face in profile as she prepped some vegetables. Her hips moved gently to the swing of a song in her head, her hand took the rhythm of her hips as it diced melodious pieces of carrot.

There was a time when he wouldn’t have faltered at her smile, wouldn’t have lingered on her interests or her mild flirting. Those times were gone, had been gone for a while now.

Death hadn’t necessarily changed him, he had been reborn with the same sex drive as when he had died, but the events following his death had subdued him somewhat. He wasn’t the same man anymore and didn’t look at women in the same way.

He pulled out his timer and glanced sombrely at the screen. He gave it a gentle, understanding nod and stuffed it back into his pocket. He looked at the fat man again. He was shovelling the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth, cramming every inch of greasy bacon into the cavernous orifice. His cheeks bulged like a hibernating hamster when he finished, there was so much food crammed inside that his greased lips could barely meet.

He chewed. Crumbs spilled out of his mouth, over his clothes, onto the floor and the table. The food went down but seemed to lodge. A look of alarm spread over his face and for the first time he took his eyes off the newspaper.

Michael stood up, prepared. He straightened his jacket, double checked his watch, leaned against the table and waited, watching.

The man held a hand to his chest. He looked anxious, worried. He coughed, sputtered. Shrapnel of soaked bread flew across the room. He coughed again, began to slam the heel of his hand against his chest.

His face turned red. His eyes bulged. He pushed back in his chair; the legs grated against the floor and screamed a shrieking wail. He lowered his head, punched his chest again and then, with a dramatic gulp and a relieved sigh, he finally forced the food down his throat.

He looked pleased with himself as he pulled his seat forward again and picked up his newspaper. He looked around to see if anyone had witnessed his struggle. He gave Michael a sly smile, Michael returned it with a sigh and a shake of his head.

He pushed himself off the edge of the table and turned towards the kitchen. The profile of the pretty waitress had gone. In her place, looking horrified and unsure, was the stern-faced waitress who had taken Michael’s order.

He trotted up to her. In front of her, flat on the kitchen floor, her head inches from the scuffed shoes of her fellow waitress, was the corpse of the pretty brunette: a pained expression on her face, a hand loosely clasped towards her breast.

“It’s okay, I’m fine.”

Michael looked up. The waitress was in the kitchen, smiling politely behind her friend. Trying to console her.

She saw Michael standing there, returning her smile. “She won’t listen to me,” she said. “Can you tell her I’ll be okay?”

The stern-faced waitress was trembling, her whole body shook. She was crying, wailing gently in shock and horror. She held her hands to her face to hold back the tears and to suppress her quivering mutterings; her eyes stared horrifyingly at the body beyond her flayed fingers.

“She needs to know I’ll be okay,” the spirit of the waitress said with concern that came from a contented place.

Michael held out his hand. “She’ll be fine,” he assured her. She looked at his hand, hesitated, her eyes on her former friend and colleague, and then she took it. The beaming, radiant smile back on her beautiful face.

“What happens now?” she asked pleasantly as Michael guided her towards the back door.

Besides Hilda, the stone-faced bitch in the waiting room, the only women he conversed with were the dead or the soon to be. He didn’t mind it. There was a finality to the dead that he respected. He couldn’t hurt a dead woman and he certainly couldn’t alter the course of her life for the worst. As a reaper he was there as their first stop on an unknown journey, an important part of their eternity but one which couldn’t effect their existence ether way.

It hadn’t always been that way, even since that fateful night when he gave up his own ticket to that unknown land in exchange for immortality. A girl, a beautiful girl, had changed him. After meeting her nothing had ever felt the same.