Dead at the Plate

The recession had turned everyone into a zombie of some sort—Marcus just happened to be one of the literal variety, although in his defense, the funeral home industry had been surprisingly resilient to market crashes. His clients didn't care about inflation. They only cared about looking peaceful for their final viewing.

He was shooting pool alone at O'Malley's, nursing a whiskey that had gone watery with neglect, when she walked in. Elena. The one who got away seven years ago, back when he'd still had dreams that involved something other than other people's grief.

"You look like shit," she said, sliding onto the stool beside him. The scent of her perfume—jasmine and something that might have been regret—hit him like a fastball to the chest.

"Funeral director's hours," Marcus said, chalking his cue stick with practiced precision. "And you?

"Divorce finalizing next week," she said, signaling the bartender for something strong. "Tom's taking the house. I'm taking the cats and a drinking problem that's been lying dormant since college."

Marcus laughed, surprised by how good it felt—how alive. "Remember that baseball game? Senior year? You in the stands, me on the mound, pitching the worst inning of my life because I was too busy staring at you instead of the batter?

"You walked three guys," Elena said, her fingers curling around her glass. "Then you hit the cleanup hitter in the helmet. Coach benched you. I waited two hours after the game to ask if you wanted to get pizza, and you said you had to think about your future.

"I was seventeen. The future seemed like something you could actually plan."

"And now?" she asked, her voice dropping to something softer, something that might have been an invitation.

Marcus set his pool cue on the felt table, the familiar green surface that had witnessed so many conversations like this—so many endings and beginnings, so many chances taken or missed.

"Now I put makeup on dead people so their families don't have to see what grief actually looks like," he said, turning to face her. "And I haven't stopped thinking about that pizza since the day I said no."

Elena's fingers found his across the scarred wood of the bar. "There's a place across the street. They're open late."

For the first time in years, Marcus felt something stir behind the careful numbness he'd cultivated like a garden of stones. Not hope—he was too old for that—but maybe something close. The possibility of something new growing out of all this rot.

"Your move," he said, and finished his drink.