The Man Who Married Death by Jessica Lévai

There came a time when Death decided to take a husband. She was lonely. She knew many souls as they passed to their reward or punishment, but they were never hers. She wanted someone to be hers. She wanted company.

There was a young man who spent many nights with her while he cared for his sick mother. After taking the woman, Death found she missed the man, who had never hated her, who was never afraid of her. Who could sit patiently, and who knew how to cook besides. She made her proposal to him three nights after the funeral.

“But I don’t love you,” he said, reasonably.

“I don’t want love,” she replied. “The ones in love with me are dangerous.” They burned, consuming others and eventually themselves. Very beautiful, but not husband material. Too high-maintenance and temporary. “Besides, she added, “I’m too busy to be loved.”

It seemed very desirable to him in the moment to have someone in his life who would not die. He accepted.

She brought her husband to her house in the west. His, now, to keep and to make a home. She was seldom there.

He walked behind her as she showed him rooms full of her odd collections and memorabilia, arms stiff at his sides. “Are there any rooms I’m not allowed to go into?” he asked.

“Should there be?” Death replied.

He shrugged. “I feel like there usually is. Something private?”

Death said nothing. She was already called away.

The man kept the little house well, for it was comfortable and suited him. He dusted the books. He swept the floors, polished the silver that only he ever used, because only he ever ate the food he prepared. He went to work, because she would not have prevented it, then came home and waited for his wife to do the same. She never brought her work home, told him wonderful stories about his fellow humans. She listened to the details of his day. It was a fine life, and he was satisfied.

He had friends visit. They made deep, approving noises over the television, the view, and the rooms (none of which were forbidden). But where was his wife, they asked? Didn’t she want to meet them? Why did he, her husband, have to keep everything neat?

His wife was very busy, he said. She had her career. He insisted he was helping her with great, important work, and he was happy.

“Are you that much in love?” one of his friends asked, as if he might be able to recommend a doctor for the affliction.

“I’m not in love at all,” Death’s husband said.

His friends snorted. Not her husband, they said. Her pet. Her servant. They made many crude assertions about their friend’s sex life, which irritated him. They said he was less than a man, which hurt.

How could he explain all his wife gave him? Everything they shared? How could he describe his admiration for her tirelessness and dedication? It made him feel so small beside her, but also great, because of all the people in the world she had chosen him.

But as time wore on, though he talked to those friends less, he felt more small than special. The smallness tightened his stomach until it felt like grinding stones. His wife, who cared so much yet loved so little, was still a mystery to him. He kept and swept and saw no way anything would ever change.

So he built a room of secrets, and forbade her to enter.

If Death saw the folly in this project (which she must, for who can really keep secrets from Death?) she said nothing.

Her husband filled his secret room with projects. He built a bookshelf, noisily. He read things not in her library, writing notes in the margins. He experimented with painting, with the guitar, with drugs. He waited for his wife to wonder, to worry, to demand. But she only provided him the materials he needed, and respected the locked door. Even when he began to neglect the house, she was silent.

He brought a woman to his secret room. Several women. He was not subtle. He wanted his wife to catch him, to yell. Perhaps to cry. She could hate him that way, and he could hate her. Neither happened.

Then he sat in his room alone, afraid of what revenge his wife might have planned. It was childish and above all, boring. How had he filled his days before? He remembered being a devoted spouse to Death, who had always been kind and generous to him.

Well, no reason he couldn’t be that again.

When he emerged into the house, it was as quiet and dark as the underside of a stone. He turned on the lights and got to work. There was trash to take out and rooms to tidy. He discovered he was hungry and prepared himself a tasty dinner, leaving a small serving for her in case her desires had changed. After cleaning up and putting the leftovers carefully away, he sat on the couch with a glass of wine and waited for his wife.

But Death did not come to him. There were wars and plagues, he reasoned, keeping her busier than usual. He decided to do some dusting before bed. His rag dislodged a sheet of paper from a shelf, which floated to the ground and waited.

The words in her elegant script warmed him. As he read he heard her voice in his mind and realized how much he missed her. The note read:

I’m sorry. I didn’t understand the cruelty of taking a mortal husband. The mistake was mine. The house is yours. I’ll see you when I see you.

He wept. The tears shamed in so many ways. He had been great. Now he was small, sad, and lonely. He longed for his wife. At last, he was in love with her.