I’d just finished exercising after work, and the door bell rang. I was sweaty, but I decided I really didn’t care who saw me in my Jane Fonda outfit. I pulled open the front door. A tall guy in a hoodie stood in the darkening dusk, his face in shadow.
“I am death,” he said.
“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba,” I replied, waiting for the punchline.
He showed me his skeletal hand, as if to offer his credentials.
I wiped the sweat off my forehead and licked my lips. “Okay.” I paused. “I was just about to have a scotch. You want one?”