Infinite

“Do you ever think about what happens after you die?” The words congealed, crouched awkwardly on the table, trying to find a place between the empty bottles and glasses, the lightly stained side dishes and antique spoons. It begged attention, whimpering.
    “Yeah, sometimes.” The wood of the table vibrated. “Does it scare you?” The response slithered across the table; the question picked it up. Contemplated it: “Not so much the dying part. It’s what happens after, maybe. I’m not sure. I don’t like the idea of just, like, leaving the game.” The words consumed each other brightly, dying low, as the awkwardness receded. “Yeah, just dropping the controller, walking away, your guy just hanging there…” The words were strange: they grew like trees and resembled stalkish, thin renditions of Guernica.
    “I’m afraid that my funeral is going to suck ass.” True words - they glimmered gold - tumbled like a slow-motion waterfall. “They’ll play Elton John at mine.” There wasn’t much conviction in those words. “When I die, I won’t have a say in what’s said in my eulogy. They’ll say things about me that I probably wouldn’t agree with, maybe - I wouldn't have a voice, I’d be gone. I would cease to exist from their minds; the moment... whatever, leaves my body, I’ll transform into a memory of myself. I don’t even think I’d still be myself after I die. I don’t really know what that means, what any of this means...but they’ll say stupid things about me. They’ll say I was liked, a hard worker, ‘loved by many.’”
    Hours passed and returned. The hands struck back and forth, the words crept silently across the table, scratching at the laquer, tapping the ceramic, tugging and clawing. They demanded to be justified and felt - each contained a shard of some heart that wanted to be loved.
    “I want to attend my own funeral. I want to be able to lean over and whisper to that guy who came because his wife made him, tell him: ‘that guy was a total dick, trust me’. I’d stop them from giving a poor eulogy, at least. I’d have quiet words with the vicar, tell him that he wouldn’t have wanted a eulogy and that I’ve ‘got it covered’. Then I’d go out and tell everyone that the funeral was over, shows over, go home. I’d then get into my coffin and go back to being dead, or something.” Hot, like tears. They sizzled and spat at each other, parting and reforming and disappearing.
    “It’s not like there’d be anyone at my funeral anyway.”
Silence once again. A waitress came up to him, handed him the check.
    “Hey, if I died now, like, right now, as I give you the money, would you come to my funeral?”
   
    “I didn’t think so.”

Funeral Aspirations

“I’m sad.”

“Why are you sad?”

“I’m just thinking about my eulogy, you know? Like, someday I’ll be dead, gone into the nothingness that awaits all men, the product of my time on this Earth left for those still breathing to enjoy...and, when I die, I’m probably going to have a funeral or something...and, I don’t know - I want my eulogy to be good, to have gravitas. But I just know my parents are gonna get some slackjaw commercial columnist to wipe his greasy hands all over my legacy.”

“I think you’re taking it a bit too personally. Besides, won’t you be dead?”

“Yeah, your point?”

“Hm, fair play.”

“God, I can just imagine it: “He was a good man, loved by all”, or something generic like that. He’ll skip everything that made me me. How about: “He despised the vapid and vacuous nature of commercial fiction, and spent a decade carving his name into experimental literature - he also successfully lived as a vegan and died with a whiskey in his hand and Proust, untranslated, on his lap.”

“You can’t read French?”

“Hey, I’m semi-fluent, you crétin. And by the time I die at the age of 92, after successfully beating stage two lung cancer and recording my struggle in a semi-fictional autobiography, I’ll be fluent in French. At the least.”

“What? Why would you have lung cancer?”

“Because, I’m going to suffer for my freedom of creative expression; the social and institutional stigma on cigarettes and marijuana exist only to oppress and control the thoughts of the greater populace. I wouldn’t let their corporate dogma restrict my work.”

“I’m fairly certain people are against those things because they’re bad for you.”

“Its sad how little people like you value their right of freedom; but, I guess not everyone can raise to the surface of this river we call life and see the pollution being dumped on our shores. I am a fish who has learnt to fly.”

“...yeah, you’re right. Your eulogy is going to be shit.”