How Not to Die Alone

by Richard Roper

He really tried his best, even when there was no one else there, to be a model mourner—to be as respectful as if there were hundreds of devastated family members in attendance. He’d even started removing his watch before entering the church because it felt like the deceased’s final journey should be exempt from the indifference of a ticking second hand.

As he slumped into his well-weathered seat, which had molded itself to his form over the years, he let out a now sadly familiar grunt. He’d thought having only just turned forty-two he’d have a few more years before he began accompanying minor physical tasks by making odd noises, but it seemed to be the universe’s gentle way of telling him that he was now officially heading toward middle age.

“But that’s no way to live your life, dude. You’re forty-two, still totally in your prime. You gotta think about putting yourself out there, otherwise you’re, like, actively denying yourself potential happiness. I know it’s hard, but you have to look to the future.”

The truth was that it had made him see that everyone who died alone had their own version of that chair. Some drama or other, no matter how mundane the rest of their existence was. And the idea that they’d not have someone there to be with them at the end, to acknowledge that they’d been a person in the world who’d suffered and loved and all the rest of it—he just couldn’t bear the thought of it.

Being silent during meals was for married couples on holiday in brightly lit tavernas with only their mutual resentment of each other left in common.

it was then that the realization hit him: he might not know what the future held—pain and loneliness and fear might still yet grind him into dust—but simply feeling the possibility that things could change for him was a start, like feeling the first hint of warmth from kindling rubbed together, the first wisp of smoke.