Jennifer Ammoscato

Aspiring author. Successful chocoholic. Debut novel "Dear Internet: It's Me, Avery." May 2014

A Valentine’s Conversation in Bizarro World

Let me start by saying that I love my husband with all my heart. And, in the event of his demise, I will have an alibi.

A few days ago, we were enjoying a romantic Valentine’s Day dinner when, apropos of nothing (okay, it may have been the wine), I told him that when the end is near for me, I could helpfully arrange for him to join me in the afterworld.

“Because I know you wouldn’t want to go on without me,” I pointed out.

“What are you saying?”

“Maybe I could bake you a nice cake with a littleĀ something in it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But why would you want to live without me?”

“I did before. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he replied, and resumed eating his appetizer.

I can’t say that it didn’t hurt.

Yes, I did propose what some might call anĀ involuntary arrangement for departing the earth (okay, murder, if you want to get technical), but if he really loved me, he’d be right on board.

Isn’t that the way it goes in all the great romances? Look at Romeo and Juliet. Would it still be considered a classic if those crazy kids had just run off to Palermo instead of making the supreme sacrifice for love? Of course not.

Maybe he just needed a little convincing, I reasoned.

“I’m sure you’ve told me at least once that you want to go first.”

“So you’re prepared to murder me?”

“I don’t think you’re looking at it from the right perspective.”

“I’m not going anywhere until the Brown’s win the Super Bowl.”

“Like that’s going to happen any decade soon.”

“I think they have a chance this year.”

I think he deserves to suffer without me.

I’ve heard of sweet, wonderful women who, when they know that they aren’t long for this earth, thoughtfully leave their husband little notes around the house as to how things work. Some even bestow their blessing on the soon-to-be-widower’s choice of a new mate. “You know, Morty, that Isabelle from up the street, I’ve seen her look at you. I think you’ve got a chance.”

I don’t think so.

If my husband won’t at least jump off the edge for me so I won’t be alone in the afterlife, then he can figure out where I hid the can opener. And the password for the checking account.

“You know you’re going to go first anyway,” I point out. “I’m way healthier than you.”

But if by any chance I’m out the door before him, there will be haunting.