I sit on the bed and touch my wife's leg while she nurses her sore wing.  I imagine that I'll whisper in her ear and initiate sex.  She moans as my fingers slide diagonal inward and tickle her thigh.  She closes her eyes and I can tell that she's thinking of her bass guitar.  I'm almost absolutely sure she thinks about it when we're making love.  The glittery grip of her glam-rock days won't let her go.

She suddenly grabs my shoulders and I'm scared.  "Fuck me hard" she hisses.  I tell her I first need to get my clown makeup off.  I go into the bathroom and I brush my teeth to calm down.  I hum the first few bars to probably a Stevie Wonder song and I sit on the toilet to collect my thoughts.

A swat team bursts through the front door.  I can tell that's what they are because their feet thunder like swat team feet and they yell out strategy in very swat team tones of voice.

The government has come to collect my wife.  If things had been only slightly slightly different, we would have been mid-coitus for this event.  I step out, brazen, into the light and I fall in such a way under the spray of bullets that's meant to be a signal for goodbye.

From the white space of death, I imagine my wife disappears in a flaming mist so the swat officers come upon where she once was and grasp only hot, heavy air.

Now both my wife and I are metaphysical.

We become pure parts of the universe, which would be something worth dancing over, had we body parts.