Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,40

a little sheepish and then quickly turned away.

Michael turned back to the man eating the bacon sandwich. He was almost finished -- not paying attention to his food, too intent on reading his paper. Moistened crumbs stuck to his lips, grease pinned the stubble to his chin. He was taking bigger and bigger bites as he neared the end of the large bread bun, chewing less and less.

Michael shook his head in distaste and turned away. He could see the smiling brunette in the kitchen. Her slim body and petite face in profile as she prepped some vegetables. Her hips moved gently to the swing of a song in her head, her hand took the rhythm of her hips as it diced melodious pieces of carrot.

There was a time when he wouldn’t have faltered at her smile, wouldn’t have lingered on her interests or her mild flirting. Those times were gone, had been gone for a while now.

Death hadn’t necessarily changed him, he had been reborn with the same sex drive as when he had died, but the events following his death had subdued him somewhat. He wasn’t the same man anymore and didn’t look at women in the same way.

He pulled out his timer and glanced sombrely at the screen. He gave it a gentle, understanding nod and stuffed it back into his pocket. He looked at the fat man again. He was shovelling the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth, cramming every inch of greasy bacon into the cavernous orifice. His cheeks bulged like a hibernating hamster when he finished, there was so much food crammed inside that his greased lips could barely meet.

He chewed. Crumbs spilled out of his mouth, over his clothes, onto the floor and the table. The food went down but seemed to lodge. A look of alarm spread over his face and for the first time he took his eyes off the newspaper.

Michael stood up, prepared. He straightened his jacket, double checked his watch, leaned against the table and waited, watching.

The man held a hand to his chest. He looked anxious, worried. He coughed, sputtered. Shrapnel of soaked bread flew across the room. He coughed again, began to slam the heel of his hand against his chest.

His face turned red. His eyes bulged. He pushed back in his chair; the legs grated against the floor and screamed a shrieking wail. He lowered his head, punched his chest again and then, with a dramatic gulp and a relieved sigh, he finally forced the food down his throat.

He looked pleased with himself as he pulled his seat forward again and picked up his newspaper. He looked around to see if anyone had witnessed his struggle. He gave Michael a sly smile, Michael returned it with a sigh and a shake of his head.

He pushed himself off the edge of the table and turned towards the kitchen. The profile of the pretty waitress had gone. In her place, looking horrified and unsure, was the stern-faced waitress who had taken Michael’s order.

He trotted up to her. In front of her, flat on the kitchen floor, her head inches from the scuffed shoes of her fellow waitress, was the corpse of the pretty brunette: a pained expression on her face, a hand loosely clasped towards her breast.

“It’s okay, I’m fine.”

Michael looked up. The waitress was in the kitchen, smiling politely behind her friend. Trying to console her.

She saw Michael standing there, returning her smile. “She won’t listen to me,” she said. “Can you tell her I’ll be okay?”

The stern-faced waitress was trembling, her whole body shook. She was crying, wailing gently in shock and horror. She held her hands to her face to hold back the tears and to suppress her quivering mutterings; her eyes stared horrifyingly at the body beyond her flayed fingers.

“She needs to know I’ll be okay,” the spirit of the waitress said with concern that came from a contented place.

Michael held out his hand. “She’ll be fine,” he assured her. She looked at his hand, hesitated, her eyes on her former friend and colleague, and then she took it. The beaming, radiant smile back on her beautiful face.

“What happens now?” she asked pleasantly as Michael guided her towards the back door.

Besides Hilda, the stone-faced bitch in the waiting room, the only women he conversed with were the dead or the soon to be. He didn’t mind it. There was a finality to the dead that he respected. He couldn’t hurt a dead