‘Hey, Dee.’

‘Hm?’

‘How can you even work with that pixie floating around?’

Ey mumbled in response, one hand writing swishy signatures, the other moving the steaming cup of tea between the mouth and the table.

‘Pardon?’

‘Years. Of. Practice,’ ey looked up from the papers, annoyed at my interruption.

‘Ah,’ was my eloquent answer.

I sat in a leather armchair in eir lavish living room; think middle 20s, rich, and Florida.
La Traviata was playing and a small-framed, blond-haired woman was pirouetting and dancing around, humming a chart-topper song. It went along well with the classic.

What you should know about Death? When ey comes for you, ey really is only yours. Ey is like you want em to be. Black-hooded skeleton, dear dog, your ex. You define ey.

For me, the stretched t-shirt, loose shorts and short, spiky, dark hair of a man were pretty much it. A bit of a weakling, or maybe a nerd, very lean and pale. Only livor mortis was missing from eir body, not mirrored from the right half of mine.