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.”