Augustin Burchell
Dead Man Walking
I met the love of my life twenty minutes before I died.
Picture it, twenty years young and on top of the world – in-vinc-i-ble! I met her at my friend’s place. She too was a pal of his, by way of proximity mostly. She lived in the unit just above his.
Technically I’d met her once before. Must have been a month earlier. Maybe three weeks. We’d smoked together, briefly, along with a handful of others, brought together by the same mutual friend from before, or later, or what have you. She’d seemed cool. Nice smile, some wit to her. Cool enough that I tried to remember her name when she told me. Inevitably though, she slipped from my mind – 3 to 4 weeks is a long time, ya know!
I couldn’t have forgotten about her the second time. Not that I really had enough time to put that to the test. But I’m confident. Call me cocky, but I’m positive! She seemed like the real deal, the whole nine yards, cozy home and cute garden, maybe a kid, maybe two – dogs at a minimum. Oh well. Twenty minutes though? What a joke.
I think it was a leaf. Can’t be too sure. Could’ve just been a slick patch of road. Maybe just the earliest sprout of frost from the night’s cold. It’s the same end to the story regardless. Slipped tire leads to unbalanced bike leads to dismounted rider leads to the abrupt union of asphalt and a skull that could have been protected if someone hadn’t been so damn worried about a bit of helmet hair. God, what an asshole.
I know she was the one. Capital ‘T’ capital ‘O.’ I knew it because, as I laid there, sprawled out in the last weak flickers of life, as my vision of the few starts that are clear at night got blurry and a suprisingly passionate spew of warmth flowed from me to pavement, I thought of her. Sitting in the mundane perfect set of early morning and vibrant life. Doing work. Making light conversation. Nice conversation.
I really think we would have liked each other. She seemed sweet. But who’s to say. I’m just a dead man walking.