This fragment of an imaginary conversation floated into my mind yesterday. I wrote it down. But it hangs in space, nothing to anchor it. Is it part of a story? Are Rani and Sheila trying to tell me something. Is this the end of a story or the beginning of one. Or is it just complete the way it is.
“Necrosis,” Rani said loudly, emphasizing the first syllable and trailing out the last, the ‘ro’ sitting in between, like a rock.
“What does it mean?” Sheila asked.
“Something to do with the neck or something.”
“No,” Rani laughed, “something to do with death…like when something or someone starts to die.”
Sheila remained silent. Then.
“Why do you always come up with these words? Why can’t we ever practice with some other words? Nice ones, you know. Not to do with death?”
“Does it bother you? Practicing with these words? Of course it does. Necrosis, demise, death, necropsy, necrophilia…” Rani’s smile was soft, almost maternal as she looked at her friend.
“Stop.” Sheila’s voice was ragged at the edges.