When notified of their impending demise, the couple deleted the forms. Who didn’t in those early, incredulous days?
Undaunted, The Easement sent symptoms: fever, chills, piercing pains.
Then options. Shivering, costly meds nearly gone, the couple scrolled: Cliff, Lava, Ocean, Amber.
“Amber!” Wife croaked. “That story in the news. Two prehistoric flies, caught in ‘the act’ forever.”
Husband laughed, his thin cage rattling. “Our final act of resistance!”
“Porno”—cough—“for posterity!”
The Finisher—polite, unassuming—came to install all the equipment. Sober now, the couple disrobed, climbed into bed.
“What you’ll feel is smooth,” The Finisher explained. “Close your eyes. Imagine honey.”
The dispenser zoomed to a point above the bed. Husband turned, craned, saw the first drop form upon its round metallic lips. He watched it fall, felt the warm, gorgeous splash on the small of his back. They kissed. Coughed hard. When The Finisher said “Go,” Husband eased inside. Wife’s thin legs strained for the ceiling. The second drop landed. She whispered, “Bye.” Laughing, crying, he buried his face into her neck. “Lovely,” The Finisher declared. “Hold it there.” Drop three. “Wow, this is the first. On behalf of The Easement, I thank you for your service!”
Michael Cocchiarale is the author of the novel None of the Above (Unsolicited, 2019) and two short story collections–Here Is Ware (Fomite, 2018) and Still Time (Fomite, 2012). His creative work appears online as well, in journals such as Fictive Dream, Pithead Chapel, Atticus Review, and Main Street Rag. http://michaelcocchiarale.wordpress.com/
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