Life is effervescent and smoky and stubbly, and he likes to raise his voice. Death is understated and blonde and is coolly disconnected from everything around her, except when Life comes to visit and makes her question everything.
She doesn’t know if it’s blood or somethingelse, maybe something from the Otherplace, that goes quick and fast down the hollow tubes of her veins, but coffee sends sparks down her (something)stream.
It’s on one of these Sundays, in a city whose name she doesn’t know, a September breeze tasting of fall and freesias weaving ribbons through her hair, when she feels a curious tug just below her belly button.
They stand at the same time, with the same feline grace, and Death takes Life by the arm and they take several steps before they whisper out of existence, and the man with the honey-brown hair goes home thinking he’s seen angels, and wakes up the next morning thinking he saw nothing at all.