shower inspritation

She thought about Death constantly. Not causally, and not with the screaming heebie-jeebies like most of her high-powered excec co-workers, but constantly. Wistfully. With a calm detachment.

She got home from work late that night, kicking the door to her expensive apartment shut and tossing her keys onto the marble countertop of her kitchen. Releaving herself of her high-heeled torments, causually clunking them to the floor where she stood, still with her purse over her shouldar, she dropped her briefcase on the kitchen table and wandered into the living room. Spacious was how her agent had described it...and it was indeed...high vaulted ceiling, big glass windows and all. A real bitch to clean.

Much as she had thought of Death she didn't expect to see it sitting unobtrusively in her living room, reading the Obits in the New York Times, wearing a discrete black turtle neck, and looking like the mayor's son.
She stopped...looked him over...yeah, Death alright..right down to his carefully trimmed fingernails and his to-die-for styled hair...that perfect cut never quite managed, unless you were born with it, the kind of hair that fell perfectly, but never looked purposeful...
She stared at him, her eyebrows delicately arched, and he slowly looked up at her, his eyes pale, mild and unfantomable, with humor lines waiting in the wings on his face. Still looking into her eyes he said, his voice low, laugh-tinged and calm; "So pretty girl...wanna go for a ride?"