By Josh Bomba
“Oh, my birthday falls on a Sunday this year,” I said lazily as my wife drove me to the doctor. I always found echocardiograms uncomfortable so I liked to fill the air of the car with idle chatter.
“In a thousand years, my birthday falls on a Thursday. Won’t have to worry about getting me gifts, I imagine.”
“Stop.” She sounded way more serious than the moment called for.
“What?” I tried to lighten the mood. “I highly doubt we’ll have work that day.”
There were tears in her eyes. “Why do we have to die? I love our life together.”
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