Cold Dead Fingers.
Cold Dead Fingers: 0001
"So... what do you want to be when you're older?"
An often asked question... one he expects to have a short and simple answer. Maybe I want to be a lawyer, a doctor, a writer, or I'm split between two. Maybe I don't know at all. I cast my eyes down to the depressed and yet thoughtful bottom-right, and considered whether he was the kind of person who I could explain it to.
I centred my pupils.
"A mortician."
"A mortician?"
"Yes."
A short pause that I knew like my fingerprint.
"My Dad's an mortician."
"Really? Where's he work?"
Another pause. He's assessing whether he wants to tell me this. I know this because he's not moved his eyes from mine. If he was trying to work out where it was, he'd be looking upwards.
"Rose Cottage."
"Oh... I'm going there this weekend..."
"Why's that?"
Something felt familiar. I decided to continue it.
"I like the atmosphere. Wanna come?"
"Sure."
A smile played across my lips.
"Pick you up at eight?"
"Sounds good."
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