Don't Drink Bees

I was in the midst of creating dinner when the telephone rang. I grabbed the receiver, balanced it on my shoulder with pressure from my tilted head. The mixing bowl positioned between my body and the counter. Stirring furiously. Twenty more minutes and he'd be home. "Hello? Is there someone there? Hello?"

A soft voice came over the line, "Hello. I'm dying."

The mixing bowl slipped, and I caught it with an arm and a leg. "Excuse me?"

"I said that I was dying."

"Who is this?"

"A very old man."

"I see. Is there something I can do for you, sir? Call someone? An ambulance? A doctor?"

"No. It's all right."

"Then, you're not dying right now." I returned the bowl to the counter.

"No, I am. It should be over in about eighteen minutes." A pause. "Yes, I should be dead by then."

"Are you sure you don't want me to call someone? Maybe, you'd like your family with you at-"

"No. There's no one left. No one to care about me."

"Please. There must be someone."

"No. No one at all. No one cares who's living. That's why I called you - a stranger. I figured even if you hung up - I'd have made a lasting impression on you. You'd see me in the Obits two days from now and remember our conversation - as short as it was - and never forget me. You'd tell someone about my call. It's too bizarre for you not to. You'd mention it at a party if we'd had a nice chat; or to your priest in confession if you'd hung up on me - out of guilt. You'd remember. My footprints in the sands of your mind so to speak." He was silent.

I bit my lip and waited. What was there to say?

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