Sleeping Late on Judgement Day

interlude: via snotgoblin

YOU ARE the most stubborn, frustrating, self-absorbed man I have ever met. And remember, I’ve spent centuries in Hell, so I’ve met some pretty irritating men. And did I mention your insanely swollen idea of your own capabilities?

For one thing, you are very, very hard on nizzics. The one you re-programmed, to use your modern word, is ruined. It sits on top of the candle flame all day, shivering and moaning. If you feel the need to reply, and I’m sure you will—because when have you ever kept your mouth shut, even when you needed to?—you can just burn a little white camphor under this one’s nose, and it will be ready for a new message. Please don’t do what you did to the last one. You have no idea how hard it is for me to get hold of these and get them to you.

Now here’s the important part: You CAN’T get me out of here, Bobby. Don’t even think about it. You had every piece of luck imaginable last time, but you still barely made it back to the world. Eligor wanted something out of you, so you survived. That won’t happen twice. I’m serious. Don’t do anything. Let it go. We would never work out, anyway. In real life, you’d leave me, or I’d throw you out before a year had passed. We’re too different, and I’m not just talking about the Heaven and Hell difference.

Take care of yourself, you stubborn, terrible, wonderful man.

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Later, sent back in reply:

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Okay, it’s about two hours since I got your message, Caz. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find white camphor after midnight, even in Jude? I finally found an Indian grocery store that’s open twenty-four hours.

What do you mean, we couldn’t be together? Do you think I really like being who I am and living the way I live? I went to Hell for you, don’t you think I could learn to wash dishes and keep my mouth shut while you watched stupid reality television shows that you liked and I hated? I don’t claim to be perfect. There’s probably a sliver of room for improvement.

In fact, my number one goal these days is to try living like any old suburban working stiff. I’m not joking, Caz, I’m really not. I’d give my wings and halo—okay, I don’t have either of those, but you know what I mean—to be able to lie in bed with you all day, to make love and read the Sunday papers (if people still print actual newspapers). My bosses could tell me, “Thousands of souls aren’t going to get to Heaven if you leave your job,” and I’d say, “Yeah, sorry to hear it. Just send my severance package to my home address. I’ll be in bed for at least the next month.”

Seriously, don’t you think you’d be willing to give that a try? You and me, a boring ordinary couple? Walk into a party together and not worry some ancient Old World demon is going to jump out of the guacamole and try to kill us? Go on vacation without worrying that the apocalypse will start as soon as we’re away from our desks? I could happily spend years kissing up one side of your body and down the other. I’m not exaggerating. I dream of you all the time. I would love to lick, bite, and suck on every inch of your chilly skin. You are like a giant coconut Popsicle, pale and cold and sweet. Oh, but warm inside. So warm.

Don’t you dare give up on me, woman. Don’t you dare give up on us.