It started out as a brilliant idea. You know. Get a part-time at the place she frequents the most. Earn some cash while I wait for her to show up. Bring her order, collect her soul. Bam. I fulfill grim reaper duties and make a few bucks to spend before I receive my next assignment. And being in such a public place at the peak of lunch rush, she wouldn’t dare raise a huge fuss, right?
Wrong.
“There’s a hair! In my food!” my target shrieked the instant I set down her plate. My assignment, an elderly lady with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun and saggy cheeks, glared at me and stabbed her fork in my direction. “There. Is. A. Hair!”
I glanced down at her baked spaghetti. It was actually well done and the golden-brown cheese on top was making my mouth water. “Where?”
The stabbing fork switched directions down at the far edge of the bowl. “There!”
I leaned forward. A stringy tendril poked out the side—a piece of cheese stretched out incredibly thin. It did look like a hair, I’ll give her that. “It’s just cheese, Ma’am.” I shrugged. “Sometimes it stretches like that and looks like hair.”
The old lady’s eyes narrowed. What was her name again? I really should review assignment details before missions.
“Are you an idiot?” The stabbing fork returned its focus to me. “It’s hair, you imbecile.”
I rolled my eyes and set down the serving tray. I was originally planning to let her finish her meal before collecting, but I gotta be honest—this lady was starting to get on my nerves. “Listen. I’m trying to be nice, here. Are you gonna eat that or not? ‘Cause otherwise I—”
“Was that a threat?” Her nostrils flared and I swear her voice was growing higher pitched. “I want to talk to your manager, young man.”
Young man? Okay. I admit, a small chuckle might’ve escaped.
The cheap red restaurant chair clattered to the tiles. “Are you laughing at me?” she hissed.
I sighed and glanced around. She was seated in the back behind the pop station, but it was 12:30 which meant even the back of the restaurant was packed. Most the customers were either gaping at us or feebly attempting to be focused on their meals while gaping at us. Welp. At least I can say I tried.
I shoved aside her “contaminated” spaghetti and sat across from her. The seat felt sticky, and I did my best not to wrinkle my nose. “Ma’am, I’m the grim reaper. Please quiet down and we can discuss your parting words to family members. And last meal, if you still want it.”
The old lady began laughing hysterically. Seriously, what was her name?
“You think this is a joke? Go get your manager! I want a refund!” Her voice had reached an impressively high-pitched screech and now even those pretending not to gawk were openly gawking.
I’d tuned her out at this point. What was her name? It was bugging me, so I pulled out my case file. “Margie Williams! That’s right.”
The old lady glared at me. “How do you know my name?” Her eyes shifted to the folder in my hands. “What’s that?”
Oops. Mortals weren’t supposed to see their own records. Not until their soul was collected, at least.
I waved a hand and the case file disappeared. “Ma’am. Ms. Williams. Please have a seat.”
She looked about ready to throw another fit—red face, clenched jaw, constricted pupils—so I lifted the veil just enough to allow her a brief glimpse at my true face; bare bone and ethereal black wisps undulating inside the skull.
“Like I said. I’m the grim reaper. Can we talk?”
So normally people shut up at this point as they realize what’s going on. Well. She certainly understood the situation. Shutting up, though? Yeah, apparently Miss Margie Williams did not know how to do that.
“I don’t care who you are. I refuse to die today, and I will not let your grubby little fingers touch my soul!” She was actually panting now and visibly trembling. At this rate, she was going to bump up her death time a few minutes.
“I understand you’re scared, but you’ve lived a good life. Your time has come.”
“You don’t know me,” Ms. Williams spat. “And a good life? My kids never come visit or help me with anything. No one gets my groceries or irons my dresses. And I’m always in pain since my knee surgery. That idiot doctor definitely messed it up and—”
“Ms. Williams,” I interrupted. I steepled my fingers, doing my best to remain civil. “You’re 93. It’s time to go. Do you have any last words you’d like sent to your—”
Faster than I expected an old lady to move, Ms. Williams grabbed the baked spaghetti and chucked it at my face. “How DARE you interrupt me!” she roared. “And YOU don’t get to tell me what to do!”
Alright. I’d reached my last straw. Call me cruel, but this lady was NOT getting final words or meals of any kind.
I stood. “Let’s go, Ms. Williams.” I wiped the spaghetti off my face and grabbed her bony wrist with my other hand.
“LET ME GO!”
She was screaming incessantly now, throwing out colorful insults and threatening to call the police. I rolled my eyes then waved at the silent, wide-eyed customers. They’d forget about seeing me, of course. Ms. Williams on the other hand? Well if she’d wanted any last words to be remembered, these were it.
“Come on.” I gave Ms. Williams a sharp tug—probably a little harder than necessary—and pulled her across the veil.
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