You died and Facetimed me from Hell.
It’s not so bad, you said. Heat is included in the cost of rent.
That’s nice, I said. One less bill to worry about.
Ravioli is the national food, you tell me.
What kind? I ask. I prefer spinach.
Spinach, you smile. You know it’s my favourite.
So you’re okay? I wonder.
The view from my window is the world on fire but my apartment is warm and I can eat pasta all day. The devil loves carbs.
I’m okay, you tell me, and suddenly I remember you’re gone.