I lifted this pic from a law firm...
“What did you say?” She turned from the window with the question in her eyes.
“I said, how long before... Well, you know...”
Her eyes were red and they narrowed at him. “How long before I die, Bob? If you can’t say it how are you going to deal with it?”
He swallowed. “Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She took a quick drag on her Virginia Slim and began to pace. “I don’t know. A month. Maybe two. They’re still not sure.”
“Well, could I maybe, have your blue angora sweater, then?”
She flicked an ash to the floor and turned back to the window. It was raining. “No, Bob. I want to be buried in that sweater.”
“Well that’s hardly fair!” said Bob.
She turned toward him, her eyes suddenly blazing. “Fair? You want to talk about fair? Is it fair that I’m dying? That my vital fucking organs are filled with poison and disease? Is it fair that I’m going to leave behind you and the kids to mourn me? That I’ll never become the bank teller I was born to be? Is it fair that one out of five people will contract gingivitis in their lifetime? Fair, Bob? How dare you!” She began to cry again.
“No. It’s not fair. I’m sorry Victoria. It’s just that I... Well, shit, I really love that sweater...”
“I’m leaving you my double-knit skirt, Bob. Isn’t that enough?”
“I’m grateful, but the sweater would go so nicely with the skirt.”
Victoria turned and reached out to him. She gently stroked his hair. A tear traveled down her blushing cheek.
“Take the sweater then,” she said softly.
“Oh Victoria,” Bob began to sob uncontrollably. They embraced, thoughts of the sweater all but forgotten. Bob looked deeply into Victoria’s moist eyes. “What about your Tyrolean Shetland wool cardigan?”
Victoria hit Bob in the face with a large wet salmon.