Here's what I wrote when I arrived home today. I write fiction, remember? So don't think I'm morbid. I am not sure what it is part of:
I die laughing.
Not out loud. Not bursting guffaws in a public setting. It's not whimsical. It's not a mass death.
I die alone.
Laughing to myself about something I read in a book. That I think of telling you about later. It was the funniest thing—this book I'm reading. And I know the smile you'll have. The one that admits you really don't care, but it also says you'll listen—because you love me.
I die crossing the street in rush hour.
The cross walk is awfully far away.
Awful.
And I'm laughing anyway and I start to run with that rush of adrenaline. That momentary what if. What if this car speeds up and doesn't see me in the dark of winter solstice.
And I die.
