"When I die," she says, "I want it to be a big party. Lots of drinking, dancing, and happy memories." She smiles, perhaps picturing the bubbles in the champagne flutes. "What about you?"
"I don't care," I lift my finger to signal the bartender. "I'll be dead."
A frown. "Well, that's awfully generous of you."
My Newcastle arrives, icy and brown. "What do you mean?"
She raises her voice, as the bass player begins tuning. "I mean, aren't you worried that your funeral will be all, you know....tacky?"
I take a draw of my beer. "Once again. I won't care. I'll be dead."
She raises her eyebrows. "I see. So, anything goes?"
"Sometimes, I don't get you at all." She studies the bar menu, tapping her fingers against the stained plastic cover.
I turn to the Penguins game, flickering above her head. At least this game makes sense.
"Are you going to say anything?" She drops the menu, flicks her hair behind her shoulder.
I exhale. "About what?"
"Nothing."She twists her earring, "It's just..." I watch her lip tremble. "It's just that I would be the one planning it."
I touch her hand, and our eyes link, "And I'm sure you would do a good job. Look. Here's what I want. A powder blue coffin. Chik-Fil-A trays at the reception..."
I watch her jaw relax as the joke unravels. She leans into me, and grins. "I'll line up the forties. For everybody to pour some out for you."
She laughs, and her throaty music fills my empty space. "As you're lowered into the ground, I will blast 'Don't Fear the Reaper' on my ghetto blaster."
"And my epitaph?"
She arches an eyebrow. "He had to have more cowbell."
I have never loved her more.
In my vlog for Write on Edge, I said I would base this prompt on a song from The Smiths. Inspiration is a funny thing; it came from here, instead.
Be sure to check out the amazing epitaph-inspired prompts at Write on Edge.