Dancing with Death
I touched Death on the shoulder. He turned. He looked just the same as I remembered him—dark hair, dark eyes, full lips, square jaw, attractive by design. He smelled like a forest just before it rains. He recognized me instantly and said unemotionally, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
I petitioned, “Why not? You show up whenever it suits you. Why is your schedule the only one that matters? What about what I want?”
His response mechanically poured from his mouth, “Now is not your time.”
I quipped, “I think I can decide when it’s my time. You think you can take me without consideration for my wants, desires, and consent?”
He responded, “I care about your consent.”
“You only care about my consent when I initiate our engagement, but when you show up unannounced while I’m lying naked on an operating table you couldn’t give a damn about my consent,” I said.
He asked, “What do you want?”
“I want to dance,” I replied.
I held his left hand in mine with his right hand wrapped around my waist. I could feel the heat of his body through my silk nightgown as we danced with graceful precision. You’d think Death would feel cold, but when we danced he felt warm like a discharged firearm. I could never tell if he was my worst enemy or best friend.
He spoke coolly, “How long must we dance?”
“However long it takes for me to feel like I have the slightest bit of control over my existence,” I answered.
He smoothly pulled me closer. He held me like he didn’t want to let me go. I didn’t fight it. I knew if he squeezed tight enough there would be no more tears, heartbreak, pain, grief, joy, pleasure, or happiness. He was the gateway to nothingness. His hand slid from my waist to my bare neck as if he were reading my thoughts. His grip felt secure like a rope. He could put an end to all of it with the flick of his wrist, but when we danced I was in control. I decided where. I decided how. I decided when. But most importantly, I decided if.
I fantasized what it would be like to give my consent and let him do what he does best, but it seemed like a distant fantasy that would never meet reality. I gently pulled his hand from my neck down to my waist. In a world where I had little control over my existence, I could always dance with Death.
As we drifted across the floor he asked, “How many times have we danced?”
I responded, “About a thousand.”
He continued, “Yet every time it ends the same. One of these nights, you will lose.”
I replied with strained confidence, “I know, but not tonight.”
His words hung in the air. He was right. I could taste his promise on the tip of my tongue. My heartbeat quickened as adrenaline and cortisol surged through my veins. Whether on my terms or his, eventually, he would have his way with me just as he had every other person before me. I was nothing special to him.
He pulled me in until our bodies were pressed together, as if he could smell my fear. I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. His breath was hot against my skin. His grip felt unbreakable like a steal straight jacket. I didn’t struggle. I looked into his dark eyes and I didn’t know if I should feel horrified or grateful. Was he an angel or demon, a lover or rapist, a cure or disease? Perhaps he was none of these things—just a vapid character without desires or motives. His face was expressionless and empty. He didn’t hate me or love me. As the gateway to nothingness, perhaps he was incapable of feeling.
I stopped dancing and he loosened his grip at my command. I leaned upward, pressed my lips to his cheek, and whispered, “Thanks for the dance. You certainly have a way of reminding me why I choose life. Good-bye.”
He mechanically replied, “Until next time.”
It was unclear if he meant on his terms or mine. I didn’t stay to find out. Death is a dangerous friend to have.
