Coda

Author's Note(s): Many of my stories focus on topics of humiliation and forced exhibitionism; however, a few fit into a niche that I like to refer to as "eccentric romance." This story falls into the latter grouping. I also thought I'd clarify that the title refers to a poem with the same name; while not explicitly stated, my protagonist would definitely be a fan of Dorothy Parker.

"'You can love me most by letting hands touch hands,'" Sally recited through her subdued sobs. "'By letting bodies touch bodies. And by letting go of children that need to be free.'"

For fuck's sake! I thought to myself while I struggled to not roll my eyes. Merrit Malloy, again? I wondered if "Epitaph" had been in some blockbuster that I'd missed. The new Avatar movie, perhaps? It had become the eulogy equivalent of what "At Last" had been for first dances at breeders' weddings.

"'Love doesn't die,'" she continued. "'People do. So, when all that's left of me is love...give me away.'"

The semicircle of people started awkwardly clapping; Sally returned to a seated position. There were about ten of us there that evening, including the group facilitator, Rhonda. I repositioned myself on the flimsy folding chair. I looked down at my watch.

"That was lovely, Sally," Rhonda said. "What made you choose that piece?"

"I, um, I..." Sally started through her tears. "I just thought it was beautiful. I remembered hearing it on an episode of "NCIS" last year and it stayed with me."

"NCIS"? Jesus Christ! I'd been depressed enough when I'd thought she was taking inspiration from a movie about blue CGI creatures, but a show that geriatric people watched to fall asleep felt far sadder. I knew I shouldn't be judging Sally, though; she was, at the age of fifty-five, the oldest person in the group.

"Well, thank you for sharing," Rhonda said with a polite nod.

"Dylan, what about you?" she asked.

"What about me what?" I replied.

I crossed my legs and revealed a sly grin; I tilted my head in her direction. I had always felt conflicted about Rhonda. She was a little too sunny for my taste. She felt like the human equivalent of that canned cherry pie filling you can buy at the grocery store -- just a touch too artificial in her sweetness.

"Were you able to come up with a poem, or quote," she asked, "that you could imagine being read at your funeral?"

Yes, reader, I'm dying. I was, and I am. I suppose that we are all dying; it's just that I'm likely getting to the finish line a little more quickly than you -- well, unless you have an even more debilitating terminal illness than I do. If that's the case, it sucks to be you.

I let out a small sigh as I lifted myself to a standing position. I knew there were only five minutes left before we'd wrap things up for the evening. I wasn't even sure why I kept coming to the group. It had been useful when I'd first been diagnosed with a rare neurodegenerative disease several months earlier, but it had since lost its impact. It had started to feel more like a ritual - or like if I didn't keep coming to meetings, I might up and forget to die in around eighteen months.

"I'd like to share one of my favorite quotes from a renowned wordsmith," I began. "The Lady Chablis."

I could see Rhonda preparing herself from the corner of my eye; she knew that I had no intention of taking her request seriously. The other members of the group looked more attentive, although Sally was still collecting herself. I couldn't help but notice the new guy sitting on the opposite side of the circle. He had been quiet the whole evening; he hadn't even introduced himself. I cleared my throat dramatically.

"'Two tears in a bucket,'" I said, focusing on the pleasing prosody of the phrase, "'motherfuck it!'"

I took a small bow, feeling proud of my resistance. I was raging against the dying of the light. I was sure that Rhonda would have much preferred that bit of prose by Dylan Thomas over my more colorful choice from the Doll of Savannah.

I heard a few members muttering under their breaths. I could tell that the new guy was trying to suppress his laughter; I caught his eye for just a moment before he averted his gaze. He was the buttoned-up, professional type. He looked to be about ten years older than me; dying in one's mid-forties only seemed marginally less depressing than managing it in one's mid-thirties.

"Well, there we have it," Rhonda said. "We all have different ways that we cope with the limitations of our mortality. Humor is a classic defense mechanism for a reason."

I felt a little wounded. I wasn't just being funny for the sake of defending myself against the reality of my untimely demise. I was making space for humor because it was a choice. I could have cried, like Sally. I was choosing to not spend my remaining time mourning. I knew there'd be plenty of people to mourn me after I was six feet in the ground, after all.

"One last thing," Rhonda said. "This is Josh. He asked to just observe this week, but he'll be joining us from now on."

The new guy awkwardly nodded his head and gave a quick wave to the group. I noticed that he had one of those crooked smiles where one side of his face pulled up just a little more than the other. I tried to remember what famous actor it reminded me of; my mind drew a blank.

"Feel free to introduce yourselves if you stick around," Rhonda said.

We all began to rise to our feet. Rhonda made a beeline for Sally, who was still struggling to pull herself together. She knew that she could cash in a few platitudes to simultaneously lessen the weepy woman's distress while feeling skilled as a counselor.

I was normally one of the first people to bolt to the door, but I found my feet planted to the floor. I pretended to look at my phone while I covertly glanced at the new guy. Damn, he's fucking hot! I started to fully register that he was a muscular, six-foot-two Adonis in a designer dress shirt. I guess he doesn't have any illness with muscle wasting, I joked to myself.

Several other members of the group cleared out, including Sally, and the woman with lung cancer whose husband would always come scoop her up in a wheelchair even though she'd reassure him that she was fine walking to the car. I had to admit I thought it was a little sweet. I didn't have a partner, and I'd never thought of myself as the type who'd attract someone who would wheel me around as my body failed.

I wandered to the table with the coffee and snacks; it put me closer to the mystery man. William, a perpetually unkempt forty-something who loved to talk about alternative treatments, was still chatting with him. I wondered if he was sharing his insights about how "vibrational therapy" (whatever that happened to be) had cured cancer in rats.

I surreptitiously watched as William finished up his conversation then made his way over to where Rhonda was lingering in the corner. I ever-so-smoothly traipsed over to the new guy while maintaining my carefully crafted façade.

"Hey, new guy," I nodded. "That must have been a thrilling conversation." I gestured towards William with a flick of my chin.

"It was!" he said emphatically. "He was telling me all about how everything in our environment has different vibrational frequencies. It's pretty astounding! Like, the leaf of a maple tree vibrates with a different resonance than the tiles under our feet. Can you believe that they've actually cured cancer in lab rats by exposing them to the right sequence of vibrations?"

Go figure, I chuckled to myself, God doesn't give with both hands! The hot ones are never smart. I forced myself to smile, feeling completely at a loss about how to respond. I was suppressing my urge to say anything too cunty, which was all I could think of.

"Do you know where I can buy a theremin at this hour?" he asked.

"A theremin?" I heard myself mutter.

"Of course!" he said. "I have to make up for lost time if I'm going to learn to play the damn thing so I can cure myself of cancer."

That endearing, crooked grin returned to his face. The fucker was screwing with me. I chuckled and felt my face turn rosy. I guess even God makes exceptions, I thought as I stared into his piercing blue eyes. Hot and witty.

"I'm Josh," he said, extending his hand.

"Dylan," I replied as we shook. "So... cancer then, huh?"

"Yep, an old-fashioned inoperable brain tumor."

"A brain tumor! Why isn't it ever the ones who seem to lack any basic cognitive prowess that have their brains break down? Gotta love the irony."

"Am I correct in assuming that your brain is breaking down as well?" he asked with a smirk.

I felt embarrassed; I hadn't intended to sound conceited when I had made my comment. I had been trying to flatter him, rather than make myself look good. It was just a coincidence that my comment applied to both of us.

"Bingo," I said. "I have a lovely, aggressive form of a neurodegenerative disease that will take me out in under two years. Silver lining: I won't have to suffer through the winter Olympics. I mean, what is the deal with curling? Am I supposed to find that interesting?"

We chatted for a bit more; the conversation quickly veered away from the morbid to the quotidian. Josh had only been diagnosed a few weeks earlier; his therapist had recommended that he attend the group. He was an architect who mainly focused on large-scale commercial buildings. The only things I knew about being an architect was what I had learned from watching "The Brady Bunch." Marica, Marica, Marica! Oh, my nose!

I couldn't help but look at Josh as we spoke; half of my attention was focused on his quips, the other on his dashing appearance. His tight, white dress shirt practically clung to his massive biceps. He had a cinched waist and a muscular, bubble butt that was highlighted by his fitted black dress pants.

I felt a burgeoning inferiority complex standing next to him. At five-foot-seven with a lean build, I was by no means undesirable, but I had been slacking with going to the gym since my diagnosis. I still went when I felt like it, which is exactly what everybody says when they don't go often enough. It didn't help that I was wearing a gray cardigan that was three sizes too large. If he was tailored perfection, I was a sartorial mess.

I kept watching his full lips move as he spoke; his voice sounded like honey. Oof, I must be extra horny! I hadn't hooked up with anyone since I had received the news.

"... my ex-wife has been sending daily texts and leaving voicemails now, even though we hadn't regularly spoken in months before my diagnosis."

Ex-wife. There it is, I thought. I knew it was too good to be true. Hot, smart, and funny. Of course, he's straight. I had to suppress a chuckle as I accepted the reality of the situation.

To put it bluntly, I felt like a fool. I had been stalwart about not getting my hopes up when it had come to my diagnosis. I knew that I would die an undignified death, and I had started to accept that. I had been quite young when my father had died of the same illness, but I still had vague memories of his passing.

I wondered why I could be so nonchalant about the fact that I wouldn't be saved, while feeling flustered to learn that Josh was straight. I realized that, while I accepted that I was going to die, I had yet to fully accept that I was going to my grave without ever having been "in love." Sure, I'd dated people and had lots of sex. I'd just never had the grand romance, and I felt like that somehow made it so my life had less value than those who had.

"Dylan? Dylan?" Josh asked.

I'd started to zone out -- or, perhaps, I had put up a wall between the two of us? I looked at my phone, making note of the time. I plastered on a phony smile.

"Wow, it's getting late," I said. "It was really great getting to chat with you Josh, but I have to take off. I'll see you next Wednesday."

Josh looked taken aback. I spun around on my heels and walked towards the door. I felt the sadness creeping back up inside of me as I imagined going home to a freezer burned microwave dinner and Netflix.

The next week passed fairly uneventfully. I continued to go to work, take myriad pills, attend my medical appointments, and try to do some things that I enjoyed. It wasn't the most exciting routine in the world, but I wasn't the type to sell all my belongings so I could afford to deteriorate on some tropical beach while tossing back fruity rum-based drinks.

When the following Wednesday rolled around, I found myself thinking about Josh again. I told myself that I would make an effort to be friendly while keeping a healthy distance. I wasn't entirely sure what I meant by that, but it sounded like a suitable plan.

I checked myself out in the mirror as I did the final button on a tight blue dress shirt. I looked good; I remembered that I had last worn that shirt to a work event. Why am I dressing up to go to group? I asked myself. I've never cared before, so what's different now? I quickly stripped out of the crisp shirt, replacing it with a black T-shirt and the same oversized cardigan I'd worn the week before.

I arrived a few minutes late; I think it was intentional. Rhonda was already having everyone in the group do some quick "mood check-ins" to let others know how they were feeling. As I settled into my normal seat, I realized that she was waiting on me to complete the chain.

"As they say in Spain, 'Estoy regular,'" I said with a grin.

Rhonda began to talk about the importance of staying in the present moment. She was providing information about how it helped with symptoms of depression for the terminally ill. It seemed pretty obvious that only thinking about one's pending death wasn't the most beneficial in terms of mental health.

She had group members talk about the various ways they tried to mindfully connect with the present. My eyes kept wandering to Josh as people spoke about yoga and cooking. He was wearing a tight, camel-colored cashmere sweater that hugged his muscles tightly.

Eventually, he talked about how his job allowed him to be in the present moment. He discussed how coming up with plans and building models felt centering for him. Of course, he revealed that he also lifted weights every day, as if we didn't know that from looking at him. I was practically drooling as I focused on the outline of his large pecs in the soft cashmere.

Rhonda invited me to share my thoughts, but I wasn't in the mood. I said some throwaway line about how what I did to stay present had already been covered by other group members. She could tell that I was not my usual self; she didn't push me.

After the meeting came to a close, I briskly started walked towards the door. Josh must have been quicker than me, because I found him standing in front of me when I reached the halfway point. He was smiling with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I replied, trying to maintain an air of aloofness.

"Can I ask you a favor? I was going to walk home, since I only live a mile away, but I misjudged the weather. I didn't bring an umbrella. Do you think you could give me a ride?"

I paused for a second. I knew that I couldn't say no, even if part of me wanted to deny his request. He must have been able to sense my reticence.

"Come on," he said with a smirk. "This is cashmere. You can't let this get ruined."

Josh chuckled as he reached out and grabbed my hand. He placed it flatly against the fabric covering his abs. Yep, that's a six-pack. I let my hand linger for a second too long before pulling it away. There was a devious sparkle in Josh's eyes; I wondered if he knew that he was teasing me. Surely, he had to know that he was super-fucking-hot; straight guys aren't that oblivious.

"No problem," I said.

Josh and I made idle chitchat as we walked to the parking lot. Luckily, the rain had stopped long enough that we didn't need to make a dash for my car. I listened as Josh talked about a new project he was spearheading at work. I offered some tidbits about my week, although my job as a glorified receptionist seemed far less interesting.

I took my place behind the wheel of my Toyota and Josh slid into the passenger seat. I wondered what kind of car he drove - probably something expensive or exciting. A BMW? No, maybe a Tesla?

As I started the car, a bubbly voice flooded through the speakers. I realized that my phone had automatically connected. I had been listening to a playlist of French pop from the sixties and seventies.

"Le bleu, l'amour est bleu/ Le ciel est bleu lorsque tu reviens/ Bleu, bleu, l'amour est bleu/ L'amour est bleu quand tu prends ma mai," sang the feminine voice on the speakers.

Josh burst out laughing. I was mildly offended. Sure, it wasn't exactly mainstream music, but it wasn't like I was listening to death metal or polka. I figured that he must have thought my musical tastes were reminiscent of those of an angsty coed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Claudine Longet, right?"

I nodded, rolling my eyes ever-so-slightly. I thought her music was nice. I had always liked her cover of "God Only Knows."

"It's just you had mentioned how you'd be dead before the winter Olympics the other day," he started, "and then you have Claudine Longet playing when we get in the car!"

I felt a bit lost; it wasn't a familiar experience for me. Amongst my friends, I'd always been the one who got all of the references. I was clearly missing something. Josh started to see that I wasn't keeping up with him.

"Oh," he began. "Claudine Longet was in a relationship with an Olympic skier. There was an accident where he was showing her his gun and it discharged. Sadly, he died... and he didn't make it to the next winter Olympics either."

I felt a mix of emotions as I took in what he was saying. Oddly enough, I mainly felt more attracted to him. I had always had a thing for older guys who knew more obscure pieces of pop culture trivia than I did. Paging Dr. Freud.

"Wow, you must think I'm an asshole," Josh said as I followed the directions on my GPS to his house. "I just have a really dark sense of humor. It's only gotten worse since I found out I'm dying."

"It's fine," I chuckled. "I'm not offended. In fact, I'd have made the same joke if I was old enough to have known the reference."

"Ouch!" Josh yelped clutching his chest. "'Old enough to have known the reference'. A dagger to the heart."

What a dork, I thought to myself. A sexy dork, but a dork nonetheless. I shook my head from side to side, as if trying to shrug off his corniness.

We reached his house a few moments later. I pulled into a spot in front of the walkway. There was a silence begging to be filled; Josh was biting his lip as he looked at me.

"How does a straight man know about Claudine Longet anyways?" I asked.

Josh's eyes twinkled; he looked down towards his lap for a moment. I could sense the gears turning in his mind.

"I don't know," he said softly. "You'd have to ask a straight guy."

But he said ex-wife, right? I asked myself. I felt my heart skip a beat at that new revelation. I waited with bated breath for Josh to elaborate further. He must have been able to sense my curiosity.

"I don't really like labels," he said. "I'd been with a few guys when I was younger, but not since I was married. It's been a very long time... like I was still in college. My ex wasn't supportive of that side of me. I mean, I don't think I was either. I guess brain cancer has helped me not care what others think anymore. To quote two very wise people, 'Two tears in a bucket, motherfuck it!'"