Spaghetti and Death

Untitled Part 1

The man, 68, fit as one can be at that late of an age, sat at his kitchen counter with a massive, freshly-boiled bowl of spaghetti. He flavored it with a thick marinara sauce, butter, parmesan cheese, and a few other assorted spices. Merely hours before, his doctor had called, and reminded him with a very saddened voice that he had less than a day to live, and if he hadn't already, to say his goodbye's, and check into a hospital. He anticipated and awaited death. If there was one thing the man was not going to do, it was spend his whole life making himself as fit and healthy as can be, then die helplessly at some fool's hospital. He tucked into his bowl of spaghetti. Like always, he let the noodles sit in his mouth only but a split-second before he presses his teeth down in a mechanical manner, and rending the noodles to minuscule pieces, favorable to swallow. 

For that mouthful, he had found hope. He thought of all the great stories he heard, where the protagonist had cheated his death date. He was healthy. He could fight this. There was nothing between him and a happy life, except for the tumor. There was no realistic getting around this, yet the man, out of his own childish hopes and anticipations, wished it. He wished himself healthy. He wished his wife happy, and with him, he wished his children happy lives themselves, and their children, and their children to come. For a moment, he found it hard to swallow through tears choking his throat. 

All hope vanished when his kitchen light, hanging over the sink, glistened off of something chrome to his far left, in the living room. He turned his head slowly. Death turned the corner, a stereotypical hood shadowing his entire face. The scythe in his bony left hand glistened again, and Death walked into the kitchen, each step soundless, yet the pounding of each step scarred the man's mind for minutes to come. The man showed no emotion. He sat, gulped the spaghetti down, forgetting all previous thoughts, and, running his tongue across the front of his top set of healthy teeth, beckoned Death to sit across the counter from him. Death followed the beckon. In a moment, without rearranging any of the man's chairs, Death took a seat. It was then that the man could see Death's face. Again, without showing any emotion, the man peered at Death's normally bony face peering back at him. The man looked back down at his spaghetti. 

"Wouldn't mind if an old man could finish his meal?" the man said, his voice surprisingly not failing him by giving away any sign of fear. 

"Not at all." Death's rasping, nearly-cough voice almost thundered and echoed through the man's kitchen. Then the man remembered the superstitious stories. He remembered the heroes cheating Death. Then the man had an idea. 

"I'll tell you what. I'll bet you my life if I can eat this whole bowl of spaghetti in this sitting." Death looked at the man, then down to the man's bowl, then up at the man again. A wicked half-smile smeared across Death's face. Death chuckled. 

"Deal." Death jutted out his bony hand. The man took it, and shook the bony hand for no less than five seconds. The cold, dry fingers felt the man's palm as a coroner examines his associates' for a wound. The man let go, but Death held on slightly longer. The man took up his fork once more. He twirled it, gathering as many noodles as he seemed fit. He was in control now. He took his time. As he placed the full fork, bending under the weight of the spaghetti, into his mouth, he peered into Death's eyes once more. Death's eye never left the man. The man got up from his chair casually. 

"Nothing like a nice tall glass of apple juice with your pasta." The man said. Death simply, in return, gave an aspiration barely worth the name. "I figure you must be quite a patient one," the man said, in a hardy, curious tone, "having to deal with situations such as this one quite often." Death turned his slightly intrigued self, to hear clearly what the man meant. "I mean, your presence can only mean one thing. They have but hours to live, some of them, merely minutes. They must have a desire to do something." The man sat back down with the bottle of apple juice. "Some, play their favorite game. Some, eat their favorite food one more time." The man lifted the handle of his fork, jostling the immediate spaghetti strands. "So, you must get pretty bored sitting for an hour for each person, as they fulfill the weakest point of their bucket list." The man lifted himself from the chair, and walked toward the cupboard. He pulled out two cups, one directly after the other. 

"So, what's your poison?" The man asked, meaninglessly fearing the answer of his visitor and intruder. 

"Well, if I must drink, I'll drink my own I've brought, thank you." The man smiled, thinking it interesting that he just got thanked by Death himself. He turned, and walked back to the counter, placed the taller of the two cups down, turned back to the cupboard, walked to it, placed the second cup back in, and shut the cupboard, finishing his waltz with three short strides back to the counter. He poured the apple juice and sat down. He peered into Death's eyes once more, Death's eyes always watching him. He looked down at his pasta, sipped his apple juice, pushed his bowl into the middle of the table, and put his feet up onto the table, and leaned against the half-wall. Death looked at him, clearly annoyed. 

"Finished?" Death asked, beckoning to the bowl.

"No, not quite." The man sipped his juice again. "I'd like to talk some more. Have you come for more than just me? Am I wasting your time?"

"No, it's only you." Death answered.

"Then why are we in such a rush?" The man asked, trying to, and succeeding to look as relaxed as possible as if Death was simply an old friend dropping by to say hello, the kind of friend who isn't wielding a firearm. 

"Fine. We don't have to rush." Death said quizzically. "Let's talk about your wife for a moment. Why did she leave you again?"

"Now then," the man answered, "not even I know that. Women are a mystery."

"C'mon, now, sir. Don't lie to me. You and I both know that you are fully aware of why your wife left you. Now, why don't you go ahead and say it?" Death said, in an almost taunting way. The man pushed his bowl to the side, took a large gulp of his juice. 

"I'm ready. Let's go." The man stood up. 

"Now, sir, would you seriously try to make me believe that you would rather die than talk about why your-"

"I'm ready." The man insisted. They left out the front door, and nobody saw the man again.