Back on the bench. I’d pace but I’d be
dragging him around with me. He’s sitting slumped over beside me,
his head on my shoulder, and I don’t want to disturb him. We have
our whole afterlives to pace. We can do that later.
Still, he’s heavy, leaning against me. With
a shrug, I tell him, “Sit up.”
“Why?” He sounds like a kid when he does
that, always asking why.
I shrug a second time but he stays put.
“It’s bad for your back.”
“Hello?” he snorts. “We’re dead. No one
cares about my back anymore.”
The next time I shrug, it’s a little harder,
intended to throw him off, but again he rides it out. “I do. I
don’t want to be chained to a hunchback for the rest of
eternity.”
He laughs but at least he sits up. “You want
to hear that joke now?”
“Which joke?” I stand up,
snag one of
