Undead and Unforgiven(34)
“I had none of these problems when I was alive.” I sighed. There’d been the occasional hungover Monday, but occasionally forgoing a bra because trying to hook the clasp made your brain hurt wasn’t the same as forgetting you were naked.
Grumbling, I nipped into the bathroom, did a quick-yet-thorough wash, and a couple of minutes later was slipping into clean underwear, a knee-length khaki skirt, and a deep red sweater. You wouldn’t think so, but parts of Hell are surprisingly chilly. And appropriate footgear, of course.
“All right, I’m leaving again. Again.” I kissed him (again) and headed for the door (again). “And thanks for the ‘always be dressed when you’re going to Hell’ tip.”
“Anytime. Er, not to aggravate you further—I live in fear of your divine wrath—I believe you’re forgetting—”
I turned. “I am? What?”
He gave me a lingering once-over from ankles to forehead, then showed the smile I lived for (and killed for). “Never mind. It seems I was mistaken.”
“Sure, like that ever happens. Okay, it does, but you usually don’t admit it.”
“I am in a postcoital coma, one brought about by the most charming and delightful woman in the history of man. I’ll admit anything you wish.”
“Damn, can I get that in writing? And how come there’s never a notary around when you need one?”
“Tina is a notary.”
“Of course she is. Fuck my life.”
“That’s the spirit, O dread queen.”
“I hate you so much.”
“Oh yes.” Another smile. “And I you. From the moment we met.”
Man, it was hard to stay mad at that guy!
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Before I left, I went down a flight of stairs and tapped on Marc’s door. I’d expected to find him holed up with a dozen teeny mouse corpses or working on the new Sudoku book or pitching a Rubik’s Cube out his window (he liked retro puzzles, but not that one). Instead he was watching TV in his room. Odd, because Marc believed watching TV was a spectator sport, or at least a couples activity. I took one look and mentally groaned.
Quick! Be quick!
He looked away from the television and gave me a distracted smile. “What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?”
“I’m going to Hell to try the time thing. Wanna come?”
“Hell yes. Heh. See what I did there?”
“Yes, I’m definitely not tired of that joke yet.” I was rarely in Marc’s room, partly because I respected his privacy, but mostly because it was where he’d killed himself.
Tina had bought him a new bed (he’d told me suicides always made sure they were as comfortable as possible before ending it, so not only had he killed himself in his own room, but he’d been snuggled securely in bed while he died) over his halfhearted protests.9 “It’s not like I pissed myself when I died,” he’d tried to explain while Jess burst into tears and I ground my teeth so hard I felt my jaw try to pop out of place. “I went to the bathroom before I OD’d. I’m not a savage.”
We didn’t care: new bed. New bedding. (“You threw out my Twister bedsheets? I’ve had those since med school!”) New clothes. And extra bookshelves. Before he died, he’d had two shelves stacked mostly with NEJM and JAMA,10 everything George R. R. Martin and Stephen King had written, the Narnia collection (“C. S. Lewis killed everyone in the last book but people bitch about G.R.R.M.?”), and X-Men graphic novels. He still had all those, but now he had five more shelves and they groaned with puzzle books, Gray’s Anatomy (he didn’t have his predeath dexterity and was scared of losing any predeath knowledge as well), and horrible jigsaw puzzles (a five-hundred-piece double-sided Dalmatians puzzle, a thousand-piece pencil collage—the horror and eyestrain were relentless).
But he stood firm on the “don’t you want a different room?” issue: “Not only can I not hear Betsy and Sinclair’s Sex Olympics from here, it’s got a west-facing window. I hate trying to sleep with the sun in my face. Even before I died. Plus the bathroom’s just across the hall. I might not need to piss or shit, but I still like showers.”
All that went through my head while he grabbed the remote and shut off the TV, looking like he wanted to throw something. Possibly out the nearest window, which had only recently been fixed after he’d tossed the Rubik’s Cube through it. Usually breaking furniture was strictly a Betsy-and-Sinclair thing. And it was usually our bed. We were on the ninth—tenth?—headboard.
“Yeah, I’d love to get out of here.”