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.
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