A short meeting with Death. Hands are shaken. Kisses on the cheeks. Proceeding into the garden to serve the tea. We quietly talk about The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Death is telling me a riddle. We laugh. She points her finger at a child. I wish to be an anecdote. It isn't. She continues to talk, rather hoarse. The traffic light is red. I'm being asked: "Aren't your lungs hurting from breathing for so many years?". I look straight into her eyes without replying. She gets flustered. Silence. She gets up, I get up. She kisses my forehead, pets my head. She leaves. I'm asking her: "Am I going to see you again?" She turns around and winks at me.
