Who Knows, Maybe Death Will Be Your Friend

Note: this was originally published as four installments in a continuous short story. I removed them, and am now re-uploading them for paid subscribers as one long-form piece. Whether you read it before and wished you had it again, or if you missed it the first time around - enjoy!

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I take two pictures of myself with my seatbelt on while I wait for him to change. I could make an art installation out of these alone: Selfies From Men’s Passenger Seats. In the first photo, I lean forward and to the right, angling toward the sun. In the second I lean further back, not on purpose, and catch a glimpse of him behind the open trunk, arms outstretched above his head, mid-dressing.

“Yo,” Morgan says.
“What?”
“Come look at this.”
“I’m already buckled.”
“Just come here.”

I don’t know how we missed it on the way back from the trail. He’s parked too close to the muddy cliffside for me to get out through my door, so I have to repeat the dance I did earlier, undulating over the driver’s side and out through his. At first glance, it looks like a misshapen hunk of white sheetrock, blasted clean by the sediment and sun. I refuse to get closer when I notice the delicate articulations of bone.

“What the fuck is that?” I ask.
“Dead dog,” Morgan says.
“What? No way.”
“I mean, probably? Look at it.”
“God, no, I don’t want to look at it, can we please just leave?”
Morgan drops to a squat to examine it closer, almost archaeologically.
“What are you doing, oh my God.”
“I’m just trying to see what it is.”
“So it’s not a dead dog?”
“If you let me conduct my experiments,” Morgan says.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “You don’t seriously mean you’re going to touch it because I swear to—”
“Relax,” he says, “I’m not gonna touch it.” He unfurls himself back to standing and walks over to me, snaking an arm around my waist. He kisses me. He tastes like peanuts and chocolate and dried cranberries.
“We’re in public,” I say, smiling into his mouth.
“So?”
“So you never kiss me in public.”
He pulls away. “That makes me sound like an asshole.”
“You’re allowed to have boundaries,” I say.
He tosses his keys in the air and catches them, jerking his head back toward the car. He takes the driver’s seat shirtless, in jeans, Magen David glinting against his collarbone.