THREE DAYS AFTER HE WAS MURDERED, RICHARD PRATT BEGAN TO FEEL MUCH BETTER...
A seemingly random act of violence propels Professor Richard Pratt into The Hereafter. It is a strange, muted, netherworld of the dead-a world in which he is forced to bear...
Their life together had a constancy, and a simplicity. Theirs was a routine that many couples would have found either boring or stifling, but to Richard and Keith, it was the very regularity of their lives together that made each day so comforting, and so precious.
Each evening, at 6:30, they would have their dinner. Keith usually cooked, but Richard made a few specialty dishes that they both loved as well. When they finished their dinner, and on those evenings in which they had no other plans (which were most evenings, to be perfectly honest), they would retire to the living room to watch one or two episodes of whatever show they had become addicted to at that point in their lives. The shows were usually thrillers or dramas, with a good dose of science fiction and fantasy thrown in from time to time. When the episode was over, Richard would click off the TV, and Keith would crawl across the couch (if he hadn't done that already because the show was particularly scary), and snuggle up against Richard's chest like a puppy. And they would stay like that for at least fifteen or twenty minutes every night, just talking and luxuriating in the love they shared.
Those moments of quiet and peace each night were the still point upon which Richard Pratt's life revolved. The feeling of Keith's soft and warm body snuggled up against his own, the feel of his lover's arms around him, and the slightly floral smell of Keith's hair, were always intoxicating.
Often those evenings would linger, and they would remain there in the silence as the sun went down and the room pitched itself into darkness. Sometimes they would keep a companionable silence. And yes, sometimes they would make love, either there, or upstairs in the bedroom. But some of the sweetest of Richard's memories were the evenings they had held each other in the evening glow and just talked; the gentle words and the long silences between them as peaceful and as renewing as moonlight on a summer's night.
But on the evening he died, their conversation had been different. It had been long, heartfelt, and melancholy.
Richard had lost all the memories of the hours before he died, but now, in the fever dream of his reset, he had been given one last gift by the Wanderer. And Richard's recollection of that last day developed like a print, hung up by some cosmic photographer...
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"Talk to me, Poppa Bear," Keith said, careful to keep his head down against Richard's chest. The fact that he didn't look up into his eyes told Richard that this was going to be a serious conversation. "You've seemed distracted and sad the last few days."
"I have?"
Yes, of course he had. For the last week, Richard had been fighting a growing anxiety and a sense of unease that was very unlike him. He had been prone to anxiety all his life, but it had always been episodic. It would flash into his life as a panic attack, and then be gone almost as quickly. But this last week had been different. As he had felt it growing, like a darkness in his heart, he had been struggling to find words to describe it, even to himself. He did not know that Keith had noticed, and he was disappointed. He'd tried so hard to suppress it, hoping that it would pass with time.
