Horatio fluttered his fingers down my ribs, tickling his way to my hip. I hid a smile. How long could I pretend to sleep, letting him intimately flirt his way around my body? Until morning light?

A caress on my neck, up to roam through my hair. Sliding down the opposite arm, all the way to my fingertips. Playfully, he traced each one. 

My toes were next, a light touch along each piglet before grabbing hold to massage my soles. It was difficult to stay still, the urge to giggle as he sunk his thumbs deeper. Next were my calves, his hands pulsing rhythmically. Horatio had never been one to care for romance, this sudden intimacy turning over who I believed him to be. 

He directed his attention to my face, a light graze across my forehead, my eyelids. His need to ignite every part of my body showing his true worship of me. We were connected on the deepest level as he focused on my lips. 

Onto my hair, kneading my scalp, spreading through my locks. What pleasure was this?

“Have you finished her then?” A voice disrupted my thoughts, startling me to attention, pulling me from where I had ascended in soothed pleasure. 

“Finished the makeup and the hair. The nylons were a little difficult to get on. Are you sure they requested that? Women nowadays don’t wear pantyhose.” Horatio answered. He was close to my face, speaking with a strange smell on his breath. Onions. Horatio hated onions.

“The old ones always wear nylons. I think she looks great. Besides the color of that dress.” 

“Her face still looks pretty bloated.” 

“Did they request earrings?” 

“I think they wanted pearls.” 

Frantic thoughts skewered reality. I couldn’t open my eyes to see, as though they were glued shut. A volcanic scream caged inside my chest threatened to blow. 

“Her funeral is Thursday, but the viewing starts tonight.” Horatio’s voice was odd. Not like I remembered.  “I think I did a good job for a woman who lived to ninety. That’s impressive in my book.” 

Ninety? Me? My funeral? No, I’m twenty-five. They had the wrong woman. I haven’t lived my life yet. How could this be? I am in bed with Horatio! Tickle my ribs again, my love. Don’t leave me in here!

Bright light blinded me. I opened my eyes, as a fluorescent bulb flashed on in a sterile room. 

A woman peeked her head in through a large steel door. “Ope. Sorry, Ethel. Almost left half of you behind. The first twenty-five years, or so, I think.” 

I gasped, a cry at the tip of my tongue came out like a deflating balloon. 

“Come on then,” she called. “Don’t want to get in trouble with soul headquarters for leaving half your life behind in your body. Let’s get you out of here and on into the light. Shall we?” She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door. “Say bye-bye to the nice mortician. Onto your next life.” 

The door was shut behind us and a large lock slid into place.