“Something smells amazing,” he says behind me.
Spinning around, I find Samuel standing in the doorway, his shorts hanging low on his hips and a bright white T-shirt molded to his torso. His eyes meet mine, then suddenly drop, right along with his mouth. He slowly takes in my appearance from my bare feet, up my legs, and to the large shirt hanging loosely on my petite frame, the sleeves rolled up a bit, so they don’t hang in the food.
“I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed your shirt,” I tell him, spinning back around as the toast pop up to slather yogurt butter on the top.
“Uhh, no. Not at all,” he answers. I can picture him running a hand through his hair, which makes me smile.
I feel his presence beside me as he grabs a pair of plates for the eggs and takes them to the table. He sets out a fork and napkin for each place setting, making sure they’re properly positioned on the placemat. I join him, flopping the pan down in the center of the table, much to his dismay. Samuel quickly grabs a potholder and places it correctly beneath the pan of eggs.
“Smells delicious,” he says as he takes a seat across from me.
“Right? I’m so hungry I could eat the ass end out of a cow,” I state bluntly, scooping up a forkful of fluffy eggs.
Samuel chokes. I glance across the table and witness him pulling his fork out of his mouth and trying to swallow the food he just inhaled. “Jesus, Freedom.”
“What?” I ask, reaching over and banging on his back a few times.
“Do you have to be so…crude?”
It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. “Huh, you know, I don’t know why I say that. I mean, I don’t even eat cow, let alone cow ass,” I chuckle.
When he doesn’t reply, I look back his way, our eyes locking once more. He doesn’t reply, but I can see the hint of a smile on his face as he takes a much smaller bite of eggs. We eat in silence for a few minutes, which might be a record for me, but there’s something so easy and natural about sitting here with Samuel.
“So, what’s it like to work at a funeral home?” I finally ask, unable to take the silence any longer.
He looks my way but doesn’t reply right away. It’s as if he’s a little skeptical about answering. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to know about the funeral home?” he asks.
I shrug. “I guess it looks interesting to me, you know? I mean, you see people at their absolute worst, but have to still make the best out of the occasion, right?”
Again, he just stares at me. After a few long seconds, he clears his throat. “Yeah, actually, that’s very accurate. My job isn’t very glamorous, but it’s a necessary part of the life cycle, and my goal is to do it with dignity and compassion.”
“You sound like the front page of the website,” I snort.
“Well, I did design it,” he states, matter-of-factly.
I push my plate forward, my belly full of delicious eggs. “So…you see them, like, naked?”
He gives me an exasperated look. “Really?”
“Well, it’s true. They’re all nudey and you have to touch them. It’s not that different from my job,” I reply with a shrug. “Except mine are still breathing when I put my hands on them.”
“I guess,” he says, finally finishing his food.
“It’s really cool that you do what you do. Not a lot of people could actually deal with death and bodies all day, Sammy. And I’m always hearing about how wonderful you are to work with. Families choose your funeral home because of you, not because of the Hansons. You’re amazing at your job, Samuel.”
When silence falls on the room again, I peek his way. “I don’t know what to say.”
I lift a shoulder and reach for the plates. “You don’t have to say anything.”
He reaches out and grabs my hands, halting my progress. “Thank you.”
My breath catches in my throat as my heart pirouettes in my chest, and I swear his thumb dances along my hand. “It’s the truth,” I tell him, my voice sounding like someone else’s, even to my own ears.
We stare at each other, caught in a trance where it’s only him and me. Like we’re the only ones in the world. “I, uh, I’ll get the dishes. You cooked,” he says, as he takes the plates from my hand and heads for the sink.
“Thanks.” I gather our glasses and napkins and meet him at the counter. “I think I’ll go take a shower,” I add, waving a thumb toward the doorway.
Just as I get to the hallway, I hear, “Hey, Freedom?” I glance over my shoulder. “No one has ever asked me about my work before. Hell, I’m pretty sure my family doesn’t even understand the importance of what I do, both to my employer and to me. So, just…thank you.”
I nod once and give him a smile. I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything at all. It’s not that his family doesn’t think his work is valuable or important, but it’s the fact they don’t understand fully. No one thinks about the people who actually direct funerals. The person who goes to the hospitals, the morgues, wherever to retrieve the bodies. The condition they may encounter. The scene. The smells. All they see is the final result, not what it takes to get a deceased individual to that point. Samuel’s job is probably harder than any I know, and the respect I have for him is tremendous and unwavering.
“You’re welcome.” With a smile, I turn and head for the guest room to gather my things for a shower.
My body is still humming as I slip under the spray of hot water. I pull my hair up on top of my head in a messy bun, just because it takes so damn long
