Free Love Letters of the Angels of Death by Jennifer Quist

away from the tray of neatly arranged, butchered chicken pieces to wash your hands in the sink. “Are we still picking out my funeral flowers?” I ask.
    â€œYes. I’m sorry. But the fact is the look of certain kinds of orchids reminds me of – rat testes.”
    I laugh so loudly the boys join in from the living room, even though they don’t know why they’re doing it. You lunge at me – clean, wet hands on my dress shirt – and push against my chest with both your palms.
    â€œIt’s not funny. And it’s not something I like about myself.”
    I don’t try very hard to straighten my face. “No, of course it’s not.”
    â€œThen stop laughing about it. It’s awful. My zoology lab partner was some kind of crazy person, and she came back from the bin full of dead rats with the frickin’ Alpha Male for us to dissect. He was so virile the lab instructor called the whole class over to marvel at his gonads after we finished skinning them. And then she made me stand there and point at every bit of his reproductive anatomy with a probe while I told everyone what everything was called and what he used to do with it. It was a nightmare. And they – the things – they looked almost exactly like pink lady slipper orchids.”
    I’m still laughing a little but I’m trying to apologize for it at the same time.
    You give me one more shove and I finally see the red glassiness in your eyes – like you’re not that far from starting to cry. “Orchids look exactly like rat testes,” you say. “And after the dissection, the smell of the rat stayed with me for the rest of the day. It was in my hair, or in my brain, like another one of my stupid post-traumatic stress reactions. Stop – it’s not funny. I’ve never been the same since.”
    You let me hug you for a moment. When you lean away from me, you brace my head between your hands and pull my forehead down to yours. “So no orchids at our funerals, okay?”
    â€œRight. Absolutely no orchids under any circumstances.”
    You’re stepping away from me, eager to move on.
    I’m nodding, grinning. “So,” I say, catching your hand, kneading your palm with my thumb, “you didn’t get around to planning a second marriage for yourself, did you?”
    â€œGross, Brigs. I’m standing here, staging my mourning for you, and you’re asking me - ”
    â€œSorry. Sorry.” And I’m gathering you into me again, against my shoulder in that way I know I can’t hold for very long before your hyper-flexed neck starts to hurt. “Anyway, I made it home just fine.”
    â€œI know you made it this time. But it’s scary when – I shouldn’t even be here, I shouldn’t even know you.”
    â€œDon’t start with that again–-”
    You’re holding my hand again, running the edge of one fingernail along the length of the bone below my forefinger. The pressure leaves a white line in my skin that disappears moments later. You’re speaking again. “Here you are married to me when I’m not even good enough to have coffee with you.”
    â€œWe don’t drink coffee.”
    â€œEveryone knows I shouldn’t be here. The waitress in the restaurant last weekend who asked if we wanted separate cheques because, clearly, there’s no way you would actually be with me – even that girl knew it. Everyone knows it but you.”
    None of this is anything I haven’t heard you say over and over again. It always leaves me feeling strange – flattered and guilty, awed by the ridiculous proportions of your feelings but sad, like it might be my fault.
    And that’s when I bend my face all the way down to yours, low enough to kiss you. “Hey now,” I say as I pull away, “there’s nothing that can take me away from here.”
    You aren’t looking at me. All I can