My final chapter was written upon diagnosis. Gus, like most cancer survivors, lived with uncertainty.
“Right,” he said. “So I went through this whole thing about wanting to be ready.
We bought a plot in Crown Hill, and I walked around with my dad one day and picked out a spot.
And I had my whole funeral planned out and everything, and then right before the surgery,
I asked my parents if I could buy a suit, like a really nice suit, just in case I bit it.
Anyway, I’ve never had occasion to wear it. Until tonight.” “So it’s your death suit.”
“Correct. Don’t you have a death outfit?” “Yeah,” I said. “It’s a dress I bought for my fifteenth birthday party.
But I don’t wear it on dates.” His eyes lit up. “We’re on a date?” he asked. I looked down, feeling bashful. “Don’t push it.”
We were both really full, but dessert—a succulently rich crémeux surrounded by passion fruit—
was too good not to at least nibble, so we lingered for a while over dessert, trying to get hungry again.
The sun was a toddler insistently refusing to go to bed: It was past eight thirty and still light.
Out of nowhere, Augustus asked, “Do you believe in an afterlife?” “I think forever is an incorrect concept,” I answered.
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