The Tea Room

Death poured me a cup of tea.

It was a herbal blend, one of my least favourites, because it tasted more like dirt than water. Still, I tried to appreciate the bitter flavour. I didn’t know if I’d ever taste it again.

“Do I have to finish the cup?” I asked.

“I should think so.” Death wiped the teapot spout with a napkin, letting his fingers linger on the porcelain. The tea set was the finest I’d ever seen, hand-painted with various birds. On mine was an osprey; on Death’s, a barn owl.

I took another sip, letting the heat suffuse me. Death watched, breathing once every few moments as if he had to remind himself to do so.

He was not how I’d imagined him to be. Not cold and calculating, nor cruel and passionate. Just calm. When I’d entered the tea room, he’d shown me a pair of loafers he’d been crocheting. There was a matching pair on the shelf behind him, tucked beside a Pez dispenser and a kerosene lamp.

He glanced over his shoulder, following my gaze. “Would you like one?” He went to take the Pez dispenser.

“No, thank you,” I said, quickly. I barely had enough room for the tea in me, let alone any type of solids.

Death nodded, leaning forwards to clasp his teacup. “Have you decided, then?”

I frowned. It was not an easy choice to make. “Will I remember anything?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

He smiled. “On how quickly you finish your tea.”

I drank, one swallow after the other. The flavor was stronger at the bottom, and almost unpleasant in texture. Soon, there were only dregs left in the cup.

“Have you decided?” Death asked again.

I stared at the ceiling, stalling for time. The light fixture was plain, modern —something I’d expect to see in a kit home. Not in Death’s tea room.

If Death’s house was nothing like I’d presumed — the fact Death even had a house was still surprising — then maybe the afterlife wouldn’t be all that, either. Maybe it was worth recycling my soul to fuel the lives of a million more. It couldn’t be more painful than dying the way I had. As it was, I couldn’t recommend parachute malfunction to anyone.

I stared into my tea cup. “What would you choose?”

He blinked, and looked at his wristwatch. It was a fake Rolex. “It makes no difference what I would choose, and your session is almost up. I’m sure you understand when I say I can’t reschedule.”

I tapped my nails on the table between us. It was mahogany, rich, with a whorl-like grain. “There’ll be a million new souls?”

“Approximately. Our quota is full for the next six decades or so, which means yours won’t be born until next century.”

I took a deep breath. Was this selflessness or stupidity?

Giving my soul — or more accurately, splitting it — for a million more to be formed seemed like a noble way to end existence. The alternative probably meant living in a sharehouse with my family for all eternity, wearing robes and learning how to play the lyre. I winced at the thought.

“Will I recognize pieces of myself?”

Death sighed. “I cannot say. You will no longer be you, for you will no longer exist, but perhaps your most prominent attributes will linger on. There is a reason some people seem to click instantly with one another.”

I started to smile. “One part of me, best friends with another?”

“That is out of my hands.”

Death’s watch read nearly eight o’clock. My hour was almost up; I had to decide now, or he would do so for me. One last time, I looked around the room, at the various knick-knacks on his shelves, and the colorful paintings cramped together on all four walls.

I would prefer to be the maker of such art, even if only indirectly, than waste away in a state of constants.

“The souls, please,” I said.

“Very well.” Death stood, and straightened his waistcoat. “Come here. This will only take a moment.”

“Will I remember, next time I — next time one of me comes? Will you remember me?”

Death cupped my cheeks, expression gentle. “You finished your tea quickly, didn’t you?”

* * *

Death picked up what was left of her — a tiny toy parachute, striped with reds and whites and greens — and laid her on the shelf. Her soul would break down in the next sixty years, before splitting into innumerable new ones. Like a mayfly, dying to lay her eggs. Until then, she would make a fine addition to his collection.

Death swapped over his tea set, checked his watch, and let the next person in.