If you wanted to set your life on fire, there wasn’t a better combination. You, me and Life.
You saw me and, at the same time, you were disgruntled with Life. Or bored with Life. Or perhaps you were just content with Life. But we both knew that Life was the problem.
Life was the innocuous guest at the party. The one who sipped her drink and used a napkin under her finger food. The one who talked about the weather and her garden and allowed you to talk about yourself. Life was the one who would show up for work the next day.
Life didn’t make you want to rip apart your skin to see where the truth of your soul hides. That’s where I came in. Life didn’t realise how much she needed me. Neither did you.
I’ve been called all of those but for you I was Death Becomes Her.
I work the party better than Life ever did. I offered you a fourth drink even though your car waited outside. I was the voice which said the condom wasn’t needed. I tickled your throat with the cigarette you took outside under the stars.
I don’t wash ever my hands.
I watched you as you drank your morning coffee and scrolled through the news of tsunami in a place far away. I was in the backseat of your car as you clicked your seat belt into place. I was there when a man took his life and used it against you. But you snuggled up with Life, the two of you curled together in that tiny space in time, your eyes averted from the darkness of me and my eternity.
Every now and then, Life would let you look toward me. She allowed you to see me in the eyes of a friend as cancer invaded his body. She played you my song in the wail of an ambulance. She knew I waited in the pages of your photo albums.
But her attention span was short and so was yours.
You needed the reminder, not the finale. Not yet. You felt the light brush past you. The lump in your left breast was benign.
You needed to know that it ends so you can set Life on fire. Because Life is not finished with you yet.
Besides, the chicken wings at this party are delicious.