The zombie apocalypse lasted a week, before everything reverted back to normal. Well, as normal as things can be with half a billion undead looking for all their old stuff back.
We’re still not sure exactly why it happened. Some say it was God, some say aliens and some that it’s all those preservatives we keep eating. Who knows?
All I know is one day I’m walking down the street and there’s my dead aunt walking up. “Jeffrey! Jeffrey!” she called out, waving her one remaining arm in the air while hobbling up on blunt ankles. “Oh Jeffrey! Isn’t it lovely? I’m alive!”
Then I passed out.
It all started on a Wednesday. A Wednesday! Nothing ever happens on a Wednesday. It’s been universally panned as the most boring day of the week. But not this Wednesday; this Wednesday felt it had a point to prove, a need to be different, a desire to fulfill some sort of ritualistic destiny.
Like on any other midweek day, the sun shone dimly through autumn clouds, the breeze keeping us all cool. People shopped and worked, and worked to shop. Children played in the mud, catching disease and friendship.
A family processed from a funeral home to a small idyllic church on the outskirts of the large, nondescript metropolis.
The grieving wife mourned the passing of her dearly departed; her children bowed their heads, thinking of home; the family dog panted in the warm air, wondering where “master” was.
As the dearly beloved gathered, the priest said a few kind words and they each siphoned off a handful of dust. Ceremoniously, they sprinkled earth onto the mass-produced coffin and shed a few tears.
Then screamed as the hand of their departed broke through the plywood and, quivering, kicked off the apocalypse.
The poor wife fainted and fell. The priest tried to run, but tripped on a loose headstone and didn’t last much longer. The children screeched and made it almost all the way to the gate. The woman, now in the grave, had cracked her head open on account of the fall and her husband, now free, slobbered over his wife of twenty years. The priest moaned as he crawled his way into the path of an oncoming horde, and the children’s voice boxes gave way as teeth gnashed and ground on their throats.
The zombies treated their heads much the same way we treat Halloween monkey nuts, splitting them open and greedily scooping out brain matter.
Of course, brains don’t actually taste all that good. After a few quick, barely digestible morsels the zombies, like sharks, spat out the tasteless human flesh and awkwardly apologized to the dearly departing.
“Needs. More. Salt!” they stammered before their memories of speech came back and they remembered how to talk without sounding like a B-movie.
Wiping their mouths with the backs of no-longer-decomposing hands, they turned their eyes to the next edible thing: the family dog. He barked and he growled, but, like candy at Halloween, he was unwrapped and devoured quicker than you can say, “Oh my god, are those zombies?”
It was a symbiotic solution in the end: the zombies promised not to eat our brains if we mushed up our pets. The apocalypse lasted a week, but the pets only held out for three days. And so the great dog-food company of the world was created, animal rights groups abolished and the dawning of a new era of human-zombie relations began.
The lawyers were the first to accept the zombies, doing so with open arms. They rubbed their hands at all the lack of legal clarity as a host of undead sought to fit back into the society they had left. The prostitutes were next to accept, as humanity’s never-ceasing curiosity caught up with itself.
Though there were a few zombiephobes kicking around who liked to kick around zombies, most people found that, after a while, there wasn’t all that much difference between humans and their resurrected subspecies. Except of course for the undead part.
So You Want to Date a Zombie?
“Jeff!” Brian said, poking me in the arm as we lay slouched on the couch. “Have you seen this?” He pointed to an advert on the telly with the other hand.
“What is it?” I asked, squinting from the copious amounts of smoke we released from a homemade bong, resisting the urge to rub my eyes raw.
“It’s called ‘So You Want to Date a Zombie?’”
“Is it like the ‘Z-Factor’? That was rubbish; the one without the vocal chords was the best.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that, you twat. It’s like, I dunno, ‘Blind Date’ or something,” he said, waving around the remote to illustrate his point.
“So, what, the zombies go on a date blind? Sounds shit. What’s the betting they get an actual blind one to do it? Reality TV…there’s nothing real about it.” I took another hit from the bong to emphasize my apathy.
“Actually, it sounds pretty good,” he said, scanning his laptop for details. “They put a human male, or female, on a stool and they describe three players who sit behind a curtain. The contestant doesn’t know anything except what the host tells them.”
“I thought you said it was reality TV?”
“I never said that, spanner; I said it’s like ‘Blind Date.’” He paused to watch me as I exhaled white smoke. “I think you should do it.”
“Do what?”
“Go on the show.”
“Why in the name of sweet Jesus would I do that?”
“’Cos when’s the last time you fucked anyone, Jeff? That’s why.”
I held my tongue, counting back the days, weeks, months. Nearly a year. A whopping three hundred and fourteen days since I’d last had sex. Three hundred and fourteen miserable wanks with me and my laptop. A year of disappointing Saturday nights and revenge chips.
“A while,” I said, shrugging.
“Come on, what if you got a zombie?”
“That’s gross,” I said, passing him the bong.
“I dunno, I’m half tempted.”
“But isn’t that necrophilia?”
“Not really,” he said, pausing to take in a breath. “’Cos they’re not dead really, are they?”
“Yeah, but they’re the undead.”
“That’s the same as the living.”
“Hardly!” I said, motioning for the bong back. “What’s the opposite of necrophilia anyway?”
“Sex?”
I woke the next day with a bad case of fear, one shoe missing and an email clarifying my entry to “So You Want to Date a Zombie?”
“What have you done this time?” I yelled, but Brian had already left.
The studio was jam-packed with crew, cast and “support” for the poor victims who would sit in the chair and play dice with their sexuality. Brian had gone and invited himself along for “shits and giggles,” bringing his trusty hand-cam for “funzies,” as he put it.
“Why am I here?” I said, pacing up and down the small strip of floor they’d designated for [Participant 011-67]. “Seriously. Why am I here? I could leave, right? I could just walk away right now and never have to come back here. Why don’t I do that?”
“Think of the pussy.”
“What if I get a guy? What if I get a zombie-guy? What if I get a zombie-guy who died four years ago and hasn’t worked up the cash to get both his legs sewn back?”
“What if you get some pussss-ay!” Brian squealed unhelpfully as he pointed the camera into his own face, sticking out his tongue and making the “Rock-On” symbol with his free hand.
“This isn’t like college, man. I could fuck anything then without even giving it a second thought because I was young and high and stupid!”
“Yeah…” said Brian, lowering the camera for a second. “Now you’re just old, high and stupid! Woo!” He screamed like a pent-up jock at a Hooters and tongue-wagged at his camera some more.
“Careful, boy, they’ll think you’re food,” said a darkly clad techie as he passed. “You’re on in five,” he whispered before darting off to the crevice of studio-hell whence he came.
I felt my face drain of blood and my hands began to jerk. Sweat dripped and slipped into my eyes. I tried to rub it out but the sweat on the back of my hand only made things worse.
“Oh shit,” I whimpered. “Oh shit, I don’t wanna do it, Brian.”
“Shh, buddy. Worst case scenario you get a bad date, best case you get a good seeing to.”
“Best case is I die of embarrassment, worst case is I fuck a dead chick, and then I die of shame!”
“It’ll be fun. Go get ’em, tiger!”
Brian slapped me on the butt and I felt myself lunge toward the stage as an ethereal voice overhead pronounced: “Participant Eleven Sixty-Seven to the floor, participant Eleven Sixty-Seven to the floor, please. This is your one-minute call.”
I had the weirdest moment where all I could think about was where participant Eleven Sixty-Six was. Why couldn’t I see him? What had happened to him? A host of images flashed before me involving spare body parts, green flesh and a deep, unsettling fear of the little blue stool edging gradually closer.
“Sit down, shut up and follow my lead,” the host said through a gritted smile as I plonked my butt down.
I barely had time to nod before a flood of lights washed over me and a million eyes, some even belonging to humans, began to watch.
“Ladies, gentlemen and those who haven’t quite figured it out yet, welcome to ‘So You Want to Date a Zombie?’ I’m your host Chuck Lanigan. Our guest tonight is Jeffrey…” He paused to read my surname: Feuk. Clearly no one had told him it was pronounced “Fwek.” Childhood memories of torment and anguish slithered back into my head. I was about to mouth Fwek! but he didn’t give me a chance.
“Jeff, welcome to the show.” Chuck glided over the problem like a true patriot.
“Um—”
“The rules are simple, Jeff. Behind this curtain are three lovely prizes, but you only get to choose one. Will it be A, our Brilliant Blonde from Bombay; B, a Budding Brunette from Belfast; or C, the Bad-Assed Auburn from Blackpool!”
“I—”
“Each round we’ll reveal one thing about our prizes and you’ll reveal something about yourself until, after three rounds, we hit the sucker-punch, and you give us your verdict, and explain why.
“And remember, you at home can text, email or phone in to vote who you would pick! One lucky contributor might win this grand prize!”
The lights bathed center left of the studio as a shiny scarlet Ferrari spun around on an elevated platform, shrouded in dry ice and disco-ball spotlight. I clacked my tongue off my dry mouth, licking my lips in vain. I forced my eyebrows down from their nesting ground somewhere mid-scalp and told myself to stay cool. I grabbed one hand with the other, then clutched my quivering leg, mentally trying to force the shakes away.
The host seemed to like doing the talking so, as long as I stayed with him, I figured I’d survive. The host rambled on about the car for a bit and asked me a few basics about myself. I answered like a robot, firing off the usuals with barely any mental thought. Name? Jeffrey Feuk. Age? Twenty-seven and counting. Occupation? TBC. Why are you here, Jeff? Good Question.
“Stay tuned for this commercial break!” Chuck said, and my brain turned back on.
The lights dimmed and I felt the room dip four or five degrees. A lackey rushed over with a glass of water and I reached out to take it, but Chuck slapped my hand away. “Does that glass have your name on it, kiddo?”
“Uh—”
“No. No, it doesn’t, so don’t touch it, you sick pervert.”
“Wha—”
“Fucking zombie freaks,” he muttered as he walked away from me.
I was stunned for about two milliseconds, then realized how apt it was, how fitting, that the host of a zombie love game would hate zombie-lovers. I huffed, hacked and spat a globule of mucus onto the floor, hoping he’d step in it. I waved off another lackey as she tried to dab my face in powder. I crossed, then uncrossed my arms, my legs. I let my limbs hang loose then brought them back to heel. It’s amazing how nerve-wracking it is to try and get comfortable when a camera is watching you.
“Lights up in five, four, three—”
“Welcome back. Tonight’s show sees Jeff paired up with three hotties, but which one will he choose? Let’s find out a little more about our cats and kittens. The first question: where do you see yourself in five years’ time? Jeff?”
“Um, I guess I’ll be here, in this city, I mean. Doing pretty much what I’m doing now.”
“A real settler, ladies. Nothing says marriage-worthy like a man with a plan.”
I was still trying to figure out what he meant when he roared “A!” as though I’d just passed quantum physics. He spun to face the curtain, shouting out to the things behind: “Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?”
A pause ensued before text on a cinema-sized screen behind me began to scribble. I tilted my head around, watching as the scrawl marked its way across.
A: Well, Chuk, i would luv to work for Paws and Jaws as Im a hughe doggie fan, if Jeff piks me he can style my doggie all night long.
The audience woo-ed as a neon sign flashed WOO and my eyebrows successfully found their way atop my head again.
“Strong words, A. What do you think, Jeff?”
“Uh, the spelling is atrocious…” I said as a metaphorical tumbleweed passed by.
“But the meaning is crystal clear!” Chuck said without a pause. “Next up is B, B, Be my baby. Where will you be in five years’ time?”
B: Well, I’m a really laid back kind of person and I try not to plan ahead too much. I like to live in the moment. All you’ll have to do with me is think about tonight!
Another artificial woo rose from the audience as Chuck let out a big smile. “Well, well! What do you say to that, Jeff?”
“She didn’t even answer the question!”
“Who needs answers when you have that, Jeffy?”
“Don’t call me Jeffy.”
“Finally, prize C, what can we see?”
C: Jeff, pick me and we can live out our days together, forever. One year, five years, twenty years; as long as you want me.
The final woo arrived on time, perfectly synchronized with my rolling eyes.
“Yikes, bit quick for that, yeah?” I said, jumping the gun on Chuck who was momentarily distracted, wiping snot from his shoe.
“Tough love from our hard-to-please Fweker,” Chuck said through gnashed teeth. “Stay tuned for round two, and keep those votes coming in!”
The lights dimmed again and Chuck rounded on me.
“Try to be a little more professional, kid.” He stormed off just as his lackey stormed on, casting his head around to see his boss/master.
“Any chance of a donut?” I asked, but it seemed too much to compute for the poor intern as he merely inhaled sharply and ran off again.
I sniggered and realized that, for all my qualms and worries, I was starting to enjoy myself. Not because the show was good, but rather because it was so bad. I was beginning to see why people watched this crap, but I reminded myself I had two rounds left to go and I was still in the running to date a limbless zombie man-whore.
“And live in five, four, three—”
“Welcome, welcome, welcome. The polls are up and down, the votes are piling in, but who will ultimately win a date with Jeff? Why don’t we find out a little more about our contestant tonight?
“Jeff,” he said, spinning to face me. “We talked a little bit about work, but what is it you actually do for a living?”
“Well, on weekends I like to sit around playing games and on weekdays I do the same.”
“So you don’t work?”
“Maintaining my kill-death ratio is pretty hard work.”
“But you don’t earn any money?”
“I earn…respect…”
“From?”
“Fellow…teammates? Look, I don’t really go in for the whole work thing anymore.”
“Oh really, why?”
“An aunt died a few years back. Actually she returned with the Rising, but of course by then the money was mine and… yeah, I sorta have enough to live on.”
“A wealthy man, ladies and gents; we all love to have a bit of cash to splash. What about our prizes, let’s find out what they do. A?”
A: I’m teh no-holes-barred type who’ll do anythin, Chuk.
“Ho, ho!” said Chuck from the bottom of his empty soul. “B?”
B: I do everything. Over and over and over.
“Work it! And C?”
C: I used to just work part-time, but together, all I’d want to do is work at making you happy.
“Some great professions there, but what does our contestant think?”
“Well,” I said, pausing to think straight in a topsy-turvy world. “A sounds like she’s either grossly misunderstood the meaning of her words or is an absolute bimbo. I guess she, and it must be a she, can’t be a zombie ’cos they ate brains for a while and this one clearly has none!”
The audience laughed, genuinely this time, as I started to warm up.
“B makes it seem like she or he is a prostitute, and I’m starting to think it’s a he… And C, well, C seems a bit needy. First we’re together forever, now you’re working to make me happy? Thanks, but I already have an ego-stroker, and he goes by the name of Brian, my best friend!” I winked to Brian offstage as the audience guffawed.
“Wise words from our in-house psychologist!” Chuck said, feeding off my good vibes. “Why don’t we see where the votes are at?”
The screen’s text was replaced by three bars: one red for A, one blue for B and one yellow for C. The bars ran up and down the screen while some technobabble occurred before they leveled off with A coming in slightly ahead of the others.
“No holes barred, no votes lost! A is in the lead with a slight majority, but it’s anyone’s game right now as we enter the final round. Don’t go away!”
The lights dimmed once more and Chuck walked off without a word, which was a vast improvement. Brian rushed over to me to pat me on the back and gave me a rigid thumbs-up before being bullied offstage again by three macho-men and a zombie with two heads.
The shaky intern came around with a box of donuts but saw Chuck coming back and darted off as I reached out, grabbing air.
“Five, four, three—”
“Tonight on ‘So You Want To Date a Zombie?’ our stud Jeff lines his pockets while he mulls over our three prizes, but which will he choose? The needy number threesy? The ‘I’ll do you’ two, whose passions include fucking and sex? Or audience favorite numero unero, the lots of fun number one? Find out in our final round!
“Jeff, the question on everyone’s lips is: what would be your ideal date?”
I paused to wonder whose lips this question was on and why they were asking it before I thought of three hundred and twenty eight days previously. I felt the weight of the audience watching me. The show was funny, granted, but out of nowhere I was deadly serious. Just thinking back made me sad, made me want to turn off the cameras and the lights and go home, crawl under my duvet and cry into my pillow.
But I wasn’t home. I was on TV, on a game show where I might get the chance to be with someone superficial for a few hours. So I mustered the courage and, for the first time in the history of the show, I acted like a real person.
“My perfect date, Chuck? My perfect date is a really simple one. It starts with jam and toast, a cup of coffee and my morning paper. We do the crossword together and she dances to the radio. Later we have a long shower and spend way too long getting dressed before going for a walk by the river. She picks buttercups and checks if I like butter, and then I…I…”
I began to choke up, thinking of it. The audience was dead silent, not least because half of them were actually technically dead. Chuck put a clammy hand on my shoulder and, in his best funeral voice said, “A beautiful, simplistic date. One befitting the most…complex, of individuals. What do you have to say in return? Why don’t we go with audience fave A first.”
A: That’s soooo sweat Jeff, I nearly cryed. But I don’t have any eyes left, so I can’t. All i can say is the perfect date fr me would be to see you happy. Xxx
B: Jeff, my perfect date would be to make you forget about all those sad thoughts and force you to be the happiest guy on earth!
C: Jeff… And you’d pick Daisies and tell me you love me, and this time I won’t fall in the river and drown. I promise.
A gasp came from the audience. The neon lights flickered to SHOCK. Chuck’s mouth dropped and my eyebrows hit the stratosphere. There was no way. Literally no way.
But of course, it had to happen like this and suddenly I realized how much of a fool I was. The zombies, they all came back to life. Anyone who died in the last five years whose body was able enough to exist came back. That means dead enemies, dead friends, dead aunts and, yes, dead girlfriends.
So there I was, sitting on a small blue stool with a million crying eyes watching me as my ex came back from the dead. I felt hot tears stream down, the salty tinge as they struck my tongue. I literally sobbed as she stepped forward and then I realized why I had never thought of her, why I never looked for her. Why after a year I hadn’t thought to go after her: because she’s a mother-fucking zombie.
My Zombie and I
First class flights with champagne, five-star hotel for four nights at a ski lodge, complimentary breakfast, lunch and dinner, free bar tab, hampers and our very own chauffeur to hang on our every need. The company paid for it all. They said the ratings were at an all-time high thanks to us: the magical, interspecies, love-never-dies couple. There was talk of a movie coming out: he loses everything, she brings it all back from the dead.
I probably won’t go and see it.
Everyone had been calling and texting and emailing, congratulating us on finally finding each other again. People cried. It’s always pretty awkward watching other people cry when all you want to do is shrug your shoulders and walk away.
Of course, it wasn’t like that to start.
When she stepped out from behind that curtain, I ran for her. I was blinded by the euphoria, the adrenaline, the rush of love coming back from a dark place. It seemed perfect, the girl I’d pined for for a year ending up on the game show I was participating in. Perfect. Like two tangential lines that take a wrong turn and find each other, forming a perfect circle. Narrative gold.
But I instantly knew something was wrong. Something had changed. She was still my girl, still my Daisy, but now…she was Daisy the Zombie.
The first revelation was the skin tone. Where before she had been milk-bottle white in winter and lightly tanned in summer, now she was a sort of off-blue. I wondered what that would look like after a few hours on a beach without the lotion. The second was the smell. We embraced aptly, and she clung to me, crying into my shoulder, saying my name over and over. I gagged and tried to push her away, but she’d lost me once and wasn’t letting go again. Then came the third revelation. Her once-slim body had bloated out and her speech made a gurgling sound every now and then. As I tried to push her away I struggled to find a bit of flesh that wouldn’t move around every time my hand pressed into it. Of course, drowning is a hard way to die. The water would have filled her; the fish would have nipped at her; the weeds would have tangled her. Slowly, ever so slowly, her body became what it was. And then she arose.
In the middle of all the celebration, as my heart tore itself between ecstasy and revulsion, I felt a new and peculiar feeling, one I had never associated with Daisy before: pity. Her hair had fallen out so she wore this unsightly wig, this vivid red thing that perched on top where her blonde locks had been. Her clothes were baggy and sopping; she was still getting water pumped out of her. Her teeth were yellow; some had fallen out. She was deformed; I was ashamed, and yet there we were in the middle of a stage, confetti floating around us, hands clapping, people whooping. Brian was actually crying backstage. I saw a stagehand shush him and Brian punch back.
Every ounce of my being wanted to walk away. To run away. To sprint a marathon away. She kissed me smack on the lips and I swear I tasted seaweed. The host announced our big prize trip for two and I scraped a smile onto my face. Somewhere in the back of my mind as all these revelations about the girl I’d once loved came to the fore, something else kept repeating: she’s still Daisy.
“So, what was it like?” I asked over dinner on our third night together.
“The steak?”
“No, not the steak…”
“The veg?”
“No…”
“The…?”
“The…you know…the…”
“Spit it out, Jeff.”
“Oh, come on, don’t make me say it.”
“You’re the one who wants to know.”
“Yeah, but don’t make me say it.”
“Coward.”
“Bitch.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’d love to, but I hear you can get done for fucking corpses in this state.”
“Oh, go to hell.”
“Is it nice there?”
Yep, same old Daisy. Same old shit. I’d missed her so long I’d forgotten how much of a bitch she could be. Three nights sleeping as far away as one can from someone else on the other side of a bed. Three nights watching the girl I’d fantasized all year about devour up a dog, paws and all. Three nights of tense, awkward, skirting-around-the-edges conversations and I’d had enough.
The fourth night was our last paid night away. The ski resort was nice, though Daisy said she wasn’t up for the hot tub as she had developed a strange fear of water. I sunk myself into the steamy bubbles and prepared myself.
I needed to confront the facts: I simply wasn’t prepared to go quite that far for love. After all, she was a zombie, an undead, a living nightmare.
Then again it had been a year.… A year of joyless, sexlessness. Three hundred and sixty-five long nights with my five-fingered amigo and Google’s incognito mode. Heck, I’d even watched some zombie-human porn; it was the fastest growing niche in online porn.
The door to our cabin loomed. I stood outside freezing my nuts off, wondering if I was able to do it. My hand raised itself and knocked.
“Come in.”
I entered, stepping gingerly on the cloud-nine carpet and feeling the fluff itch between my toes. She was standing by the mirror, her back turned to me, brushing her garish wig.
“How was the hot tub?”
“Fine.”
I inched closer, every step seeming harder to take. My feet cemented to the floor, like they didn’t want to move on. “Did you go down the slope?”
“No…”
Online, there’s a trick called the Widower. The man fucks a zombie girl till she’s about to fall apart, then she snaps back and munches on his brain. It’s pretty gruesome stuff and has only been done once. I wonder though, if, after getting it on with a zombie, that wouldn’t be better?
I reached out a hand, mere inches away. My fingers trembled and the towel I wore after the sauna slipped away, falling deftly to the floor. I tried to swallow, but my throat was like an ashtray.
“You should have. I went down earlier and it was great. So fast, I think I lost some ear though.”
I gently touched her shoulder with the tips of my fingers, rubbing the rough skin that had once been so smooth. I held my hand there, my grip firm, and turned her around to face me. She paused and stared, one eyebrow raised questioningly. I stepped closer, pressing myself to her. It had been so long since I’d felt the touch of another body on my own. Even one so hideous, so meticulously messed up. But then there was something beautiful about the state of decay. I began to think of her like a piece of art, something Tim Burton-esque. I stared into her yellowed, bloodshot eyes, ran a hand over the edge of her jaw, feeling the blood clots under the skin. She raised her hands to my flesh, touching me.
“Cold…” I said, not sure why, maybe just to fill the silent air and cut the awkward tension.
“Warm,” she said, pulling her hands around me, her face looming toward me.
After all, it had been a year, for both of us.
She pushed me to the bed and I grabbed her by the arms, pulling her to me. She sat on my torso, writhing against me. I was hard, but she was starting to turn me off. I flipped her onto the bed, facedown, and tore the remaining clothes from her. I wish I’d turned the lights off first. Zombie parts are revolting at the best of times. I rubbed against her for a bit, trying to resurrect my own dead organs.
“Do you have a condom?” she asked.
“A what? Why would we need one of those?” Surely zombies can’t get pregnant.
“For STDs!”
She might be dead but her meticulous sense of health had clearly gone nowhere. I flipped through a few jeans pockets, searched the contents of my wallet, opened drawer after drawer after drawer; no luck.
“I can’t find one!” I said, hand on penis, trying to keep some inkling of the love going. “But look, I can assure you, I haven’t been with anyone since you, well, since you, um—”
“I get it, okay, fine. This one time! But next time, use a condom!”
I was really hoping there wouldn’t be much need for a next time.
I knelt behind her, one hand on her moist back, the other gripping her bloated bum. It was time. Mr. Johnson, as I like to call him, was back in business. I pressed myself closer to her; she whimpered a little; I shuddered. My premonition from before was correct: she was oh-so-cold. I closed my eyes and let the rhythm take over, trying to block out the odd gurgle that mixed with her moans of pleasure.
Smoke filled the room as we shared a cigarette afterward. Sweat dripped from my body and my head felt like a lead balloon. Daisy was grinning, twirling a finger around my hair, lacing my chest when she wasn’t smoking.
I felt weird. Relieved, but weird. I tried not to look at her directly, preferring the vision from my periphery, as though I could see what was meant to be rather than what was. We didn’t say much, just lay there in the smoke and thought of each other; at least I thought of us. I thought of what a life with a zombie would be like, if I could really go in for the long haul. People were supportive, sure, but there were so many more questions to be asked. Do they age? Will I be eighty and old and wrinkly while she’s young and— Actually, that might not be so bad. But what if they age super-fast, their bodies unable to stay sinewed together until they deform into a floating head in a jar of pickled water? That’s not the kind of life I want.
After a while we both got up. I showered and pulled on a robe. She toyed with her wig some more, easing out the knots. The moon hung in the sky and the clock ticked on, counting down till tomorrow. I got into the bed and pulled the cover up over myself. She watched me again and I patted the side of the bed. She moseyed over, easing herself in and snuggling up to me.
With her head on my chest and smoke in my head, I smiled.
“So, how’s life with the living?”
Same old Daisy.