Dead on Monday | Tricia Richert
A man and his wife will find me dead in the back of the old cinema on Monday night. They will call a whole team to ‘bring me back’: four paramedics, two cops, two firemen, heck they will even let the manager try to work his magic on my lifeless body. An embarrassing scene if you ask me. While getting out the oxygen, the tubby medic will manage to knock my purse off the seat next to me, spilling its contents in the lit room. Car keys; a phone with a cracked screen; tampons galore; Excedrin, Advil, Tylenol; a barely used gym card; a torn piece of paper with the names Howard, Evan, Brian, Natalie, and Cindy scribbled on it for a story I wished to write; a stolen hotel card; Camel Lights; used Kleenex; vanilla spray, and some lip plumper. My driver’s license will be nowhere to be found. Its whereabouts are out of my control. I just hope it ends up somewhere better than here.
* * *
Born in 1976. She’s thirty-three. She doesn’t look that. Wait when do they update these pictures? Thirty? Twenty-five? Did I miss this notice? Mine is still from when I was twenty-one. Not an organ donor. Was something wrong? Maybe she was just selfish. She doesn’t look like a selfish person though.
‘Evan, please turn that light off. What are you even doing in there?’
‘Sorry hon. I’m just curious about this woman. She must have had a family, right? Maybe a husband . . . I've never seen a complete