The Happiest Girl in the World

Prompt: "I think I just met the happiest person in the world."

I think I just met the happiest person in the world, I think to myself. She is sickeningly sweet. I want so badly to hate her, but can't find a good reason. She's just annoyingly delightful. She's sat in front of me nursing her cup of tea. Decaf. Chamomile with honey. Smile across her face that feels genuine. She's just nice. And I don't trust nice.

"So. What do you do for work?" She asks. With interest. Eyes boring into my own. So sincere I have to look away. This question is usually the point in the date where the girl starts eyeing the exits.

"I'm a funeral director." I say.

"How lovely."

"Really?"

I can practically see the little hearts in her eyes, the anime striped blush on her cheeks. She is a ray of sunshine and I am a fucking vampire who can't bear the light.

"Yes," she says, "You comfort people when they're grieving. You help people to put loved ones to rest. That would be a difficult job, but rewarding I'm sure."

Fuck. I really wanted to hate her. When Sally, queen of the dykes, short-lived lover, long-time friend, said she had the perfect girl for me, I doubted that very much. Most girls looked at me as if I was the grim reaper himself. My proximity to death was contagious. My life was depressing. And they wanted nothing to do with it. I expected the date to fail. Hell, I wanted the date to fail. I'd been so confident that she'd run away screaming that I'd planning a little commiseration stoner session at home. The one date that never let me down was a bag of cheetos, a bong rip, and a vibrator. Always a good time. Never a disappointment.

This girl was something else. Yellow knit sweater. Blue jeans. Wire earrings dangling from each lobe in the shape of tits. Classic lesbian earrings. She was too good to be true. And she was just so darn happy to be out with me.

I was a veteran of the queers now. I'd made my way through the L-word reruns. I'd moved from the snapback to the flannel shirt to the denim vest to the Bieber hair. Now I was out the other side with an authentic style fought for through years of unlearning rules. I'd been to all the clubs and bars. Made out with all the dykes of eligible age. Lipstick lesbians. Butches. Studs. I'd even made my way through the swinger scene and the kink community. Why not try everything once? I thought I'd surely exhausted the dating pool of every lesbian this side of the country. I'd given up on the cottagecore life with a wife and a few cats. I'd left behind the party scene for a stable job in the only field hiring at the time. Funerals. I'd help the families plan their ceremonies. I'd assist in preparing bodies for open caskets. I'd make sure the right songs were played at the service. I accepted my mundane little life, a spinster with a depressing dayjob, doomed to be alone.

And then there was her. So bright and full of joy that I almost found it off putting. I was so used to living in my routine. My microwave meals. My Monday masturbation sessions. My weekend bubble baths. I didn't want to let anyone else in. My little life was comfortable.

"Are you okay?" She asked. She rested her chin in her hands. Waiting. Fuck. She was patient, too.

"Yes. I'm alright. Sorry. I've not met somebody who sees my job as anything other than gross and macabre."

"I can imagine," She stared unblinkingly, "But I guess I just don't see death that way."

"How do you see it?"

"A new beginning."

Bingo. She's a religious fanatic, I thought. Finally a reason to hate her. Maybe she was here to pray my gay away. But it was far too late for that.

"You mean..." I paused, cautious, "like an afterlife?"

"No, nothing like that." She giggled.

"I'm not sure I quite understand."

"What if I told you that death doesn't really happen?"