by Jennifer Ammoscato

Let me start by saying that I love my husband with all my heart. And, in the event of his demise, I will have an alibi.

A few days ago, we were enjoying a romantic dinner when, àpropos of nothing (okay, it may have been the wine), romanticdinnerI told him that, when the end is near for me, I could helpfully arrange for him to join me in the after world.

 

“Because I know you wouldn’t want to go on without me,” I pointed out in case he missed my logic.

 

He frowned. “What are you saying?”

 

“Maybe I could bake you a nice cake with a little something in it.”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“But why would you want to live without me?”

 

“I did before. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he replied, and resumed eating his appetizer.

 

I can’t say that it didn’t hurt.

 

Yes, I did propose what some might call an involuntary arrangement for departing the earth (okay, murder, if you want to get technical), but if he really loved me, he’d be right on board.

putinthecake

Isn’t that the way it goes in all the great romances? Look at Romeo and Juliet. Would it still be considered a classic if those crazy kids had just run off to Palermo instead of making the supreme sacrifice for love? Of course not.

 

Maybe he just needed a little convincing, I reasoned.

 

“I’m sure you’ve told me at least once that you’d want to go first.”

 

“So you’re prepared to murder me?” he asked, taken aback.

 

“I don’t think you’re looking at it from the right perspective,” I responded, anxious to help him see the light.

 

“I’m not going anywhere until the Cleveland Brown’s win the Super Bowl.”

 

“Like that’s going to happen any decade soon.”

 

“I think they have a chance this year.”

 

You know, I think he deserves to suffer without me.

 

I’ve heard of sweet, wonderful women who, when they know they aren’t long for this earth, thoughtfully leave their husband little notes around the house as to how things work.

 

Some even bestow their blessing on the soon-to-be-widower’s choice of a new mate. “You know, Morty, that Isabelle from up the street, I’ve seen her look at you. I think you’ve got a chance with her.”

 

I don’t think so.  Not me.

 

If my husband won’t at least jump off the edge for me so I won’t be alone in the afterlife, then he can figure out where I hid the can opener. And the password for the checking account.

 

“You know you’re going to go first anyway,” I tell him. “I’m way healthier than you.”

 

But if by any chance I’m out the door before him, there will be haunting.