one hundred seven

“Simon always had a nose for a party.”

That’s how our friend used to describe his ex, although we were unsure whether that meant, in this particular case, a comment on his ability to find a fiesta or that he had snorted his way through many a weekend.

The text came as a shock. “We got married last night at the hospital. For a few hours we were the happiest couple on the planet. Then there was a sudden turn for worse.”

Simon said sayanora.

We’d known about the cancer.  We didn’t know when (or why) they’d gotten back together. 

It’s one of the sad truths about death. Suddenly life is precious again.

And then we went through a host of final moments. 

Deathbed nuptial or sunset on the beach. A hospice surrounded by loved ones or something shiny distracting us from the oncoming bus.  A desperate gulp of sea water with a pocket full of stones. Heart attack atop a hooker? Fiery plane crash.  Alien abduction.  Suicide bomber in a previously tranquil hotel lobby.

All we could agree on was, “You just never fucking know.” 

So we decided to live life to the fullest.

Right after we checked Facebook.

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