There he is at last, Death.

There he is at last, Death. Never on time, you notice, tutting to yourself. Perhaps this is because he walks at an angle, right leg dragging ever so slightly. Maybe it is the stoop in his back. Did you know that Death is bent like a candy cane? You watch his laboured progress, unperturbed by the hot sun on his cloaked back.

The air is calm, you listen to the birds and the same sun warms your face as you get distracted in living, in being alive.

Death grumbles. He hates that.

When he reaches you he looks you up and down, apparently he is unimpressed. You feel a little self conscious, and greet him awkwardly, unsure what to do with your hands.

Photo identification, he says, voice drawling slowly, as if he can’t quite make the effort to wrap his skeletal mouth around the words. Death asks only once and then stands there watching you flap about with your pockets until, eventually, you produce a card. He glances at your licence, nodding, bored. He appears spiritless (if you’ll pardon the pun) and inattentive.

Come on then, he says, lets go. You are a little miffed, you thought dying would be more… Dramatic.

Come on now, Death says again, I have a pick up in… Here Death pauses to check his watch. Fuck, he exclaims, twelve minutes. You follow Death past the peony flowers and along the garden path.

You don’t look back.