How Death Will Come

Death, when it comes, will be a little, smiling, happy, and pre-occupied, older woman, sitting behind the wheel of a late model Japanese automobile, probably with a little pillow under her bottom to prop her up in her seat, so she can see over the dashboard,  listening to classical music on the radio, maybe one of those old Polish or German maestros, with the big, lush, orchestra sound thundering over her like some enormous sonic wave, the radio turned up loud because her hearing isn't what it used to be,  and her glasses propped on her nose, but really the glasses aren't that much help, and her seeing isn't so good anymore either, and it's dark outside, and seeing in the dark is a problem, and it's snowing now, and well she can't wait to get home, and she doesn't really have much peripheral vision anymore, anyway, and that clunky old bike coming across the intersection, well, my goodness, she didn't even see it, and even as the biker goes into major evasive action, she keeps her foot on the gas pedal right into the biker's path, and well that biker's life just flashed before him and he can see himself, broken and sprawled out on the pavement, with his bike mangled and his body broken and mangled too, and well his last thoughts are "Fuck, this is how it goes," and even as he gives himself up to the futility of the moment of such an accidental and pointless, and really kind of silly ending, somehow he avoids the head-on collision, and sort of swerves like a dying quail and ends up parallel to the car, not crushed by it, and finally, belatedly, the woman stops, in the middle of the intersection, she rolls her window down and says to the biker, "So, sorry, are you okay?" and the biker, nods, he wants to reassure this Messenger of Death that yes, he's fine, all is well, don't worry about the forlorn biker, his heart is racing, and there's blood in his eyes, but yes, he's fine, no worries, and the Messenger of Death, smiles and drives off to wherever it is she's going to, and the biker, well, he rides off too, into the darkness of the evening, white flakes swirling about him and he thinks, yes, give or take a couple seconds, a foot or two, yes, that's how Death comes.