“But I died, Jim.”

And Jim recoiled, roiled, boiled, turmoiled. Mind replaying the horrific event, moments of cold, clammy flesh. The flesh of fish: fillets and flanks, steaks and flakes—ready to cook. Ready to rot. Ready or not. No longer beloved. No longer Blair, no longer there.

“No.”

“But we have to talk about it, man. I died!”

And Jim walked, stalked, anything but talked—out of the loft, their loft, their home.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” he screamed, but the terrified and terrorized whisper could not be heard blocks away.

Time passed…

“But you died, Blair.”

“Blair” now, not “Chief”, not “Sandburg”, not “Darwin”, nor “Darlin”. Nothing but “Blair” would do. Could do. Not now.

“No.” Blair gasped, spinning away, like a fish out of water, or a drowning man. His flesh feeling cold and clammy, as if ready to rot and fall off and leave nothing behind but a gritty skeleton, a gruesome grinning skull. Alas, poor Sandburg, I knew him, Ellison. Crumbling and broken; wet dust to be hoovered by breezes, Chinooks, trade winds or typhoons.

“But we have to talk about it, Blair. You died!”

“Nope. Changed my mind. We are so not talking about it. Ever.”

More time passed…

Jim’s surfboard changed hands at the next neighbourhood garage sale. Sushi and lox were forever stricken from favoured restaurant choices.

And really, what else was there to say?

End.