A Day in the Life - Part 6

“This tastes like it looks,” Death said loudly, holding a half-empty glass of beer up to the light and peering through it.

“And how’s that?” said Lena.

“Unsanitary.” He grimaced at the glass, then threw back his head and swallowed the rest of it. He had the vague feeling that Lena was laughing at him, but instead of her he was looking at the clock across the bar. The light was far from satisfactory, and his vision had already gone a little fuzzy at the edges, but he could still make out the movement of the second hand, and it was irritating him. “Can’t you get rid of that clock?” he said. “I hate clocks.”

“Sorry,” said the bartender. “If that thing wasn’t there, half of these guys would never leave.”

“That’s their problem, then, isn’t it?” said Death. He turned to the person sitting next to him. “Can’t you just wear a watch?” he said.

“Who are you, anyway?” said the guy. “’Cause whoever you are, you seem to have the alcohol tolerance of a small lizard.”

Death looked over at Lena, who was muffling her laughter with the sleeves of her sweater. He thought of saying something, but changed his mind and instead picked up her mostly full glass from the counter. “I can tell you who I’m not,” he said, taking a sip from it and spilling a little on his red jacket. “I’m not Jude, is who I’m not. But you’re supposed to call me that.”

“Jude? Like the song?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Death, momentarily distracted by the fact that he was holding his glass at an angle and the contents were pouring onto his leg.

“Hey, Jude,” sang the guy next to him. “Don’t make it bad.”

“Take a sad song and make it better,” sang a voice from somewhere far enough out in the dark that no one was really sure who it was, and the man next to Death raised his glass and started singing again, but forgot the words and ended up humming sleepily to himself

Death turned back to face the counter. “Can’t you get rid of that clock?” he said to the bartender. “I hate clocks.”

--

With three days, fourteen hours, and ten minutes left in his stay, Death found himself vomiting copiously in Lena’s bathroom. “You were right,” he said, leaning against the cold tile wall. “That was not the same at all.”

“Here,” said Lena. “So you’ll survive the first few hours of tomorrow.” She picked up a red plastic cup from the edge of the sink and filled it with water, then handed it to him. “You really do have the tolerance of some kind of little animal, though, Jude.”

Death took a swallow of water and looked up at her. “I think I liked it better when you just called me death,” he said. “At least that one meant something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t approve of my name-choosing skills?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Can’t you just go back to the one that makes people look at us weird?”

Lena smiled. “Oh, fine, death then.” She slid down the wall and settled on the floor next to him. “By the way, in answer to your question, I did imagine you in that jacket.”

“Really? Why?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I think I just always thought of red things being the important ones. Death is definitely something important.”

Death nodded and looked down at the red plastic cup in his hand. “So what’s important about this cup, do you think?” he said.

Lena looked down at it for a second, her eyebrows coming together in puzzlement. “I don’t really know,” she said. Then she stood up, ruffling his hair affectionately on the way. “You should brush your teeth and get to bed,” she said. “I’ll open up the sofa for you. I have plans for tomorrow.”

“Right, toothbrush,” said Death. “Do I have a toothbrush?”

“If there’s not one in that massive suitcase you brought, the powers that be have been given an unfortunate misnomer.”

“Ah,” said Death. “Right.”