The Egg

The Egg

By: Andy Weir

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

Timing Matters.

Earlier in the summer. My place.

We spend the night curled up on the couch watching a movie. A bottle of red and a proper spliff always made for perfect, lazy evenings. She tells me she just wants to be friends and I concurred. Neither of us are ready for anything serious. But after the film is finished, there we are, laying alone in the dark quiet room, listening to each other’s heartbeat.

My fingers caress her face and she closes her eyes, she pulls herself closer to me and I smile.

In another time, in another place, this would be a picture of love. But there are no fireworks when our lips touch. And although time does seem to slow down when we kiss, it does not stop.

“What’s wrong with me?” we both ask ourselves.

Everything. Nothing.

We laugh.

Author:Ira Jay (@holdtrue_)

Photographer: Corentin Schieb