I thought he might get a fright seeing me there with my bald head and all, but he just burst out laughing.
“Man, it really suits you!”
(Of course, my husband is from a different era, so he didn’t actually use these words. Translated into modern parlance, though, this is what he meant.)
I rubbed my head bashfully—bald heads feel great to rub—and smiled.
“You saw it at the funeral too, though.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t really in a position to notice that kind of thing. I just felt so awful.”
“Aww, thanks. That’s sweet of you. Well, as you can see, I’m not doing badly at all, so I want you to enjoy yourself as well, okay?”
“Okay, that’s cool.”
“See you, then.”
“’Bye for now.”
And with that, we parted again. I think that was a better parting than our first one. The first time around, I’d been at death’s door, and then I’d died, and between all the caring for me and the grief and so on, my husband was a total mess. Come to think of it, I think we were both intoxicated by the tragedy that had befallen us. From where I’m standing now, that seems totally uncool.
Anyway, from that point on, I’ve kept my shaved head. I’ve seen a lot of styles of dress come and go across the ages, but I feel like today’s fashion is probably best suited to the buzzcut look. There are lots of women like me on earth these days—their ears full of piercings, wearing ripped band T-shirts and torn black jeans, Doc Martens, bright red lipstick and plenty of eyeliner. It seems like people have finally caught up with my style. What took them so long? That’s what I’d like to know.
I’m pretty partial to this age from a cultural perspective, too. I guess the correct term is “pop culture”? Anyway, I like it. I find myself listening to loads of music and watching a ton of films. This year I was very proud to see that Furiosa in Mad Max: Fury Road had the same haircut as I do. I was so pleased, in fact, that I ended up going to see it four times! I kept on popping up in the aisle, on the seats and in various other places around the auditorium, cheering Furiosa on in her adventures, stealing bits of caramel-coated popcorn and slurps of Coke from audience members too caught up in the action to notice. That was a real blast.
My wife seems to be enjoying herself so much after death that I haven’t yet managed to speak to her.
This is my first wife I’m talking about here. She was of a sickly disposition while she was alive and passed away in no time at all after we married. In fact, the postmortem version of her seems more full of life than the living one ever did.
Nowadays we’re both working at the same company. It’s a big company and she seems entirely oblivious to the fact that I work here, too. There are times when I think to myself, surely, surely she must have seen me just then? The other day, we passed right by each other in the corridor, but she was wearing these huge headphones carelessly leaking sound, and she walked right past me, humming. It’s not like she’s ignoring me deliberately. She’s a punk these days, so she doesn’t make eye contact with or smile at everyone she passes. I want to respect that choice. Above all, I’m just happy that she seems to be doing well.
Now I can understand what she might have been thinking when she came to visit me when I was still alive, stood by my bed, and told me in a very phlegmatic way that she was doing fine, and that she wanted me to enjoy my life just as she was enjoying her death, before promptly disappearing. At the time, it struck me as a bit coldhearted. I wanted her to be pining for me, forever and ever. Remembering that now, it seems pretty damn rich of me to have felt that way when my new wife was lying right there beside me in bed.
My wife belongs to one of the company’s top-secret departments, and the nature of her job is shrouded in mystery. Mine, on the other hand, consists of regular admin work and routine checks.
I don’t have any exceptional talents. After my death, I came to see that very clearly. It made me wonder what on earth I’d been playing at while I was still alive. People treated me well because I was a man—they treated me the way that men were treated. They sorted out a new marriage for me right away when my first wife died, and generally made sure everything was hunkydory. I took that for granted, and while I’m embarrassed to admit it, I never really gave it much thought. I don’t even remember having worked particularly hard. What was I thinking, honestly?
But I like my current job. Maybe it’s just a reaction against the brainless existence I led while I was alive, but this steady work that demands persistence and accuracy is novel to me, and even enjoyable. I always wanted to do things properly. I really did.
At our company, there’s about a fifty-fifty split between the living and the dead. There are also a few who occupy a kind of intermediary position between the two. Of course, most of the living can’t see us dead. My guess is that if they could, they’d be genuinely shocked by how many people are moving around this building.
Since I joined this
