Oh, you're dead now. Now you've gone and died and made a mess. How am I going to clean you up? Am I supposed to call the doctor? Do I call the police? Goddamn it.
I'd found his body on our couch, stiff and blue. It made me furious. Furious! He was calcified and cracked and it was a great, big mess, and I was going to have to clean the whole thing up by myself like always. I tried to lift him up, and he was too heavy, and his skin kept peeling off and getting all over me. There were stains where he'd leaked on the couch.
The couch is going to be no good after this!
I finally figure out how to hoist him up, and I kind of fold him over my shoulder, slide him in half, and fit him into a duffel bag. I notice that he's ripped apart at the seams, and he's filled with lasagna.
You got sauce on me!
I take him outside and try to get him into the trunk of the car, and he's too heavy. An old acquaintance from college happens to be walking his dog as I'm hefting my husband onto my shoulder. "I need help!" I shout, imperiously.
"Ok." He starts trying to help me lift the bag. The dog is curious about the lasagna.
We finally get him in the trunk of the car, and the guy asks me, "Don't you think you should have called the police before you cut him up like that? You might be a suspect..."
"I didn't do anything!"
I'm really fuming now, and I realize it's time to get to the airport. I'm on my way to Rome.
And I'm in a hotel in Rome, and I'm on the phone with the accountant in my office. I'm explaining to her that I won't be in the office for awhile because I had to go to Rome for vacation because I'm really tired. I explain to her that I can see St. Peter's from my window, and I can see it from every angle, no matter where I look. I keep talking to her, telling her how tired I am, how awful it's been lately, how much I need vacation, and suddenly, I realize that my husband is dead.
I realize it, and I'm paralyzed. I start trying to tell her that I'm really, really sad because my husband is dead, and that I've been wrong all along...it's not a reason to be so angry. It's really, really sad. I can hardly breathe. I'm trying to tell my mother that my lover has died, and she's not listening to me one bit. She's telling me he was a good for nothing junky and that I'm better off without him, and I can feel my heart beating. I can't breathe. I can see my heart beating, bluer, because he's died, and I don't know what's happening. I don't know how I'm going to be able to open my eyes anymore. I don't know why nobody can hear me.