Fiction: How To Die

How To Die

First, I take off my skin. I peel it from my body like a film off a delicate dessert. It doesn’t come easily but with a little persuasion, I get my arms out of these sleeves and wriggle, my skin falling away like a slip at my feet. I pick up this hula-hoop of flesh, shake out the folds, and set it onto a coat hanger lest it get more wrinkled. With my skin off, I realize how much lighter I’ve become.

I dance. I’ve never learned to dance, but now that I’m dying, it’s time. My daughter teaches me to pas de basque. I feel the floor for the first time in years. As I glissé, my feet slide along the grainy wood, and as I sauté, the sprung floor responds. I’ve had trouble learning new things, but this comes naturally. Watch one, do one. I ask my daughter, "What is the pas de basque?" and her eyes become verdant in a way I’ve never noticed. She tells me of the 19th century Bialy Mazur, of petticoats and elbow length gloves. We dance through the rooms together, and as my feet skip along the grain, I imagine the horses of the Polish cavalry racing in waltz time across the steppes of Central Europe.

My heart begins to quiver, whistling to the music in my head with remiss and unaware frankness. This is the last dance, the last chance for those all-night ball-goers. They dance fiercely. I look down at my chest, see my heart glisten through the ribs. Each time it squeezes, it looks like it's winking. You might ask: how could I see my heart? Did the muscles between my ribs come off with the skin? I don’t know, but today I don’t worry. There are many things that have left my mind like whether I have my hair or whether my daughter is still dating the guy at the bowling alley. That thought quickens my pulse. I turn to say something, but when I see her eyes, I can’t. They're green, still. Instead, I ask her to turn off the lights as she leaves the room so I can lie down and reach behind the whispering and tremulous organ to loosen its screws.