Life

Death is a patient and capable woman, but she's hardly good under pressure. 

I cringe as she paces the length of her dining room, her arms waving everywhere as she attempts to collect herself. I came here as soon as I found out the Penny's and Dime's workshop was closed due to the owner's daughter's mysterious disappearance one month ago. 

He was the only one in the store, he was putting away boxes when I came in, shouting to me over his shoulder that the shop was closed. I really needed to see if my typewriter was being fixed or if there had been an oversight on behalf of the mailing company that had caused them to lose my package. The typewriter is important to me, not to mention it's an antique, they don't manufacture machines like that one anymore. 

I wanted to ask him about it, but he seemed so distraught. His voice was thick was emotion, eyes red and puffy, and he looked as if he hadn't eaten in days. The man was walking dead. I was about to leave him to his own devices when I noticed that the only box he refused to move, the only one that remained almost untouched, was the one sitting on the counter against the left wall, next to the register. 

Its closing flaps were opened, and from my spot by the door I could see a flash of pink glimmer in the soft morning light. Beside it was a familiar cream colored envelope with slanted writing decorating its back in dark ink. Ignoring the man's protests, I approached it, realizing it was the one with the manuscript I'd written, the one addressed to my uncle Lachlan in the hopes he would help me finish it.

"What do you mean you think you lost someone!? How does one even do that!?" Death shrieks, disrupting my thoughts, "Oh my Fates, I'm going to lose my job! I'm going to lose my job!"

She gasps, beginning to hyperventilate. At its sound, her handsome redheaded companion runs from the kitchen to the dining area carrying a pot of water and a rag, rushing to her side as she collapses on the nearest chair. As I recall upon meeting them, I thought Love was a term of endearment, however odd it sounded coming from an irritated Death's lips. She made the pet name sound like something unsavory, always saying it with a scowl on her face or with an exasperated roll of her eyes. I realize now, however, that Love is his actual name. 

I watch them interact as he sets down the pot on the dining room table, fisting the rag and then dipping it inside before squeezing out the excess water. He brings it to her forehead, dabbing it on her skin before leaving it on there for a moment and shifting his attention to her hands. Picking up her left hand, he whispers sweet nothings to her, attempting to soothe her as he rubs circles on her knuckles with a thumb.

His eyes are anchored to her closed ones, trained to the flutter of her lashes and the soft exhales of her lips. As if forgetting I'm in the room with them, he leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on her left temple. I can sense her pulse begin to slow, something I'm privy to as the giver of life. 

Love's own pulse steadies and mirrors Death's own, their hearts thrumming with something more than blood. I lower my gaze to the table, not wanting to intrude on something so intimate. Love and Death may bicker back and forth all they want, but even their most tense arguments can't disguise the fact that there's something else there-- despite that fact neither is ready to admit it. 

Opening her eyes, Death clears her throat, lightly pushing Love away before sitting up and dabbing the rag all over her face. She takes a deep breath before shifting her gaze to me again, voice shaky.

"Uhh, okay. Let's start from the beginning. You said you went to the shop and...?"

She raises a brow expectantly, swallowing as nervousness threatens to bleed into her voice. Her anxiousness starts to make me anxious, and I stutter my response. 

"Uh-um. I went there this morning to pick up my typewriter because I had sent it to them a month ago and no one responded to my calls or emails."

Waving her hand for me to continue, Death stands up and begins to pace the dining room again, Love trailing after her before he gives up and sits down in her empty seat. If someone as cool and collected as Love is showing signs of restlessness, should I be full on panicking?

My heartbeat starts to pick up pace, sweat pooling in beads on my nose and forehead. Is it suddenly super hot in here or is it just me? Will management dish out cruel and unusual punishment for accidentally causing someone to disappear? 

I swallow a lump of nausea, dryness overtaking the roof of my mouth. 

"And then I realize the shop was closed, but the door was open. So I went inside, and I saw that the owner was distraught before I noticed my package was by the register. I saw my typewriter was still in the box, but right beside it was an opened envelop with the manuscript I'd planned to send to my uncle."

Death's breathing hitches before starting up again.

"And then?" she prods, waving her hands again. 

"And then the owner told me to go back outside, but I was determined to take my things until I remembered I'd used the ink you gave me for the typewriter."

Death suddenly stops walking around, turning to face me. 

"You- you what?"

At her blank expression, I feel the nausea in my throat intensify. My head starts to feel light, my vision blurred with an onset of hot tears. I'm totally going to lose my job after this. Or worse, Afterlife Management might decide that the best course of action would be to make me pay for my negligence. Indefinitely. 

"I- I used the ink you gave me for my typewriter. I mistook it for my usual ink and-"

"Oh my goddess you used the ink I gave you for your typewriter!? It's no wonder it stopped working! That ink is not compatible with machines! It's for manual use only!!! Oh my Fates, oh my Fates, after this, Afterlife Management will never let me see Aries again! I'll lose my job, I'll-"

Knitting my brows, I ask, "Who's Aries?"

Love turns to me with a scowl. 

"Her dog. She kidnapped it from the Lavender meadows after it died in an explosion. And when Afterlife Management found out, Death made me an accomplice and dragged us both around the world to escape with the dog."

"You know," he says, rolling his eyes as he turns to Death, "I still have a scar on my arm from that trip."

I grow silent, contemplating the fact I'm sitting in the entity called Death's apartment, conversing with the entity called Love who's in love with her but doesn't know it yet (talk about irony) about kidnapping a dog. And the reason I'm sitting here in the first place is because I accidentally lost a human being. 

"I'm sorry," I blurt, "I didn't realize I was using it until after my typewriter stopped working!"

Death sighs, wiggling her fingers as she moves her hands up and down, calming herself.  

"What was the problem with the typewriter?"

I fidget with my hands.

"Its keys would move on their own."

"Ugh, of course! It's magic ink, I gave it to you because whatever you write with the ink comes to life. If you write about a pregnant human woman, you give life to her and her baby, that's how it works. That's how it's supposed to be used! Now, there's a poor innocent girl trapped inside this manuscript that came to life because you used the wrong ink!"

I feel my eyes well up with a new wave of tears, except this time, they actually spill down my cheeks and onto my jean-clad thighs. 

"I'm sorry, Death! Really, I am, I wish I knew how to bring the girl back, but I don't. Why else do you think I came here?"

Death runs a hand over her face, exhaling deeply. 

"Okay, okay. Here's what we're going to do. You're going to return to that shop, take your box and the manuscript, and return here so we know what you wrote. We'll go from there."

"I have the box with me, actually. I didn't want to take any chances by leaving it in front of the shop's owner."

For the first time since I came, Death lets out a relieved exhale, placing a hand to her heart. 

"Oh, thank the Fates! That's good to hear. Bring me the manuscript, Love and I will take a look at it."

Nodding, I wipe my sweaty hands on my legs, gathering lint on the lines of my palms before bringing them to my eyes, wiping away my fallen, drying tears.