“So what’s the plan for Valentine’s Day?”
“Nothing. Just playing Playstation.”
I continue to type at my computer, absentmindedly chewing a pen lid in my mouth when I realise that no, that is not true. That is not true at all.
“Oh. VALentine’s Day. I mean, I’m planning on taking my girlfriend to a fancy restaurant” I say, a little too quickly.
Jennifer raises an eyebrow.
I nonchalantly spin the pen between my fingers. “Yeah, probably somewhere quite fancy, actually” I add.
“Oh really?” Jennifer is nodding at me now and I swear I can see something behind her eyes. Is it hurt? Betrayal? Jealously?
Whatever it is, I love it!
“Yeah, it’s also our 3 month anniversary and… “
“… Wait 3 month anniversary? I thought you said you met her in June?”
My pen clutters to the floor. Damn.
“Yeah, I mean, no you’re right. I did meet her in June. That’s four months actually. Wow. Time flies when you’re in love.” I’m scrambling over my words a little now, and I can see she’s looking at me a little suspiciously.
“I only remember because obviously we broke up in May” Jennifer continues, fiddling with the bottom of her blue latex glove.
“Did we?” I pretend to look puzzled. “Oh yeah, I remember now. Yeah, you called it off in May. May 5th” I freeze.
“I mean, I think it was around May 5th.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, Steve” she says. Her voice has gone a little quiet.
“I’m also glad that it’s not weird and we can work together and be adults about this whole…” she waves her arm in the air. “Situation.”
Situation? I am forcing a smile on my face as I nod in agreement. Underneath the smile I’m raging inside.
Our relationship boiled down to one simple word. Situation.
Don’t EVER get involved with someone at work. Trust me. It is the worst decision you’ll ever make.
Not only do I have to see my ex every God damn day, but I’ve made the ‘situation’ way more complicated because I have to keep up a lie I stupidly told a few months ago - that I have a girlfriend.
And if I remember correctly, it’s now serious and we’re thinking of moving in together?
I can’t even keep track of the lie anymore. So so stupid. Was I talking about how I was thinking of buying a ring last time? Was my imaginary girlfriend a brunette or a blonde?
Why didn’t I write this down?
I sigh as I start to fill in toe tags, darting a quick side eye towards Jennifer. She is cleaning formaldehyde from the slabs, her movements slow and gentle. I sigh again, louder this time. Her gentle and slow movements around the deceased were what initially attracted me to her. She tiptoes around them as though they are asleep and she doesn’t want to wake them. I like that.
My pen starts to run out and I tap it impatiently against the wall. I can hear the big boss, Dean, humming in our back office, sorting files which have piled up over the last couple of weeks.
We’ve been really busy in the funeral parlour lately, and it hasn’t helped that Jennifer has been on vacation the past two weeks, laying on the beach in Mexico, basking in the sun. I know this because we’re still Instagram friends.
Something I have assured her doesn’t bother my imaginary girlfriend.
The fluorescent light above me flickers and I look up at it in annoyance. Jennifer calls out to me from the other side of the room.
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” she asks. I hesitate for only a moment.
“Sandra” I lie. “Sandra Addams. She’s a university student, studying arts.” I stop for a second and then add “Really smart. Really pretty.”
Take that, Jennifer.
I don’t know how I’ve managed to come up with a name and backstory so fast but I’m a little impressed with myself. Jennifer nods and walks out of the room. Is it just me or does she look a little upset?
I don’t care. She’s the one that broke it off between us.
I’m now alone in the funeral parlour, alone with my thoughts, alone with my lies. I whisper the name of my imaginary girlfriend over and over under my breath, ‘Sandra Addams. Sandra Addams’. I have to commit the lie to memory.
Although, the name feels a little familiar?
Where have I heard that name before? I’m deep in thought as a slow creak cuts into the silence.
I turn around to see that one of the body drawers is opening. My eyebrow raises suspiciously, and I look around the room to see if someone is pulling my leg, but there’s no one there but me.
A tray starts to slide out, painfully slowly. And then there’s two feet, one with a toe tag emerging. My mouth falls open in shock and suddenly I can’t speak. Hands are appearing, and they’re bracing themselves against the wall for leverage.
My heart feels like it has stopped in my chest when it dawns on me where I got the name Sandra Addams from.
I had written that name on a toe tag just last week.
Sandra - 20 years old, university student, blunt force trauma to the head - is pulling herself out of our fridge drawer.
In the effort to climb out, she has smudged her blood red lipstick so it almost reaches her left eye. I make a small sound - a guttural groan and she twists unnaturally towards it. I hear ALL the bones click in her spine. She’s wearing a pink dress - something I remember her mum gave to me when we were discussing the open casket funeral arrangements.
The air in the room feels thick and suffocating, and the flickering fluorescent lights are causing weird shadows to dance on the wall behind her. Sandra’s feet touch the ground, bare and splotchy.
“Babe,” Sandra rasps taking her first wobbly step. Her lips are cracked under the sheen of red lipstick.
“Did you forget Valentine’s Day?”
“He totally did,” chimes in a voice. It’s Jennifer and she’s walking over to Sandra, hand outstretched. My mouth is agape.
“You must be Sandra,” she says.
Their hands shake and Jennifer recoils for a moment and I know instantly it’s because Sandra’s skin is ice cold.
Jennifer is examining Sandra’s lipstick smeared face. It’s the face of a young, Arts college student alright, but her eyes are open far too wide and really bloodshot, almost protruding from their sockets. The pupils are cloudy - like cataracts. And every muscle on her neck is twitching. It looks like there are bugs under her skin.
“Ready for dinner, darling?” Sandra’s voice echoes. It booms off the white tiles that cover the funeral parlour’s walls and floors, sending shivers down my spine.
She steps towards me, hand outstretched and I stumble backward, the stench of formaldehyde claws at my throat as panic seizes hold of my shaking limbs.
Jennifer’s eyes bore into me, a mix of confusion and suspicion clouding her features.
“Are you ok, Steve?” she asks. “You look a little pale?”
I felt lost for words, struggling to comprehend the impossible reality that is unravelling in front of me. Is this some sick joke, a cruel trick of the mind orchestrated by my guilt-stricken conscience? Or is this really happening?
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I manage to squeak. “She’s not I swear! She’s dead!”
Jennifer recoils, her expression hardening with a steely resolve. She looks back at Sandra, who is looking at me with a lopsided grin.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I want no part in it,” Jennifer spits, her voice laced with venomous contempt.
“Get her out of her before Dean sees you’re bringing your dates to work.”
With trembling hands, I reach out to grasp Jennifer’s arm, pleading for her to believe me, to save me from my dead imaginary girlfriend. But she’s gone. Jennifer has left me with Sandra.
A sinking feeling envelops my chest as I realise I’ve done it again.
I’ve gotten involved with someone at work.
“Let’s go, darling” Sandra coos at me. She links on to my arm, her cold fingernails digging into my skin. The lights above our head flicker for one last time before they go completely out. I scream.