The owner’s an older lady with a pearly smile and pasty skin, and she interrupts Death and me and asks if we’d like anything before happy hour and my lifetime come to an end.

“Yeah,” Grim says. “Two Jaegers, neat.”

Grim’s hood is large and wool and midnight-blue/black. It turns my way so of course I look inside and it looks like nothing, like death.

“Anyway,” says Grim, slouching, tapping those thirsty and leathery fingers on an empty, gloomy tumbler glass. “Dying isn’t so bad. In fact , the only downside is there’s no coming back, unless you’re a Buddhist. And Buddhists don‘t even want to come back. Besides, you’re not a Buddhist. You‘re just an *******, Fred.”

I keep quiet. The ceiling fans buzz. I sip, finish my drink slowly, carefully, making sure not to slurp or drip as the owner sets down a fresh round of warm Jaeger.

“Thanks,” says Grim. “You‘re an angel, and Fred’s buying.” Grim gives me a glare, I think.

I grunt, reaching for my wallet. “What a waste,” I say. “What a waste of time, life and money.”

“Yup,” Death says, “I come in threes,” then laughs.

The owner puts her hand on top of my hand on top of my wallet then looks at Death and smiles and says, “I’ve got this one.”

The end.

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