Two old people sat in overstuffed chairs. The cushions held the persons’ shapes, and the wear on the armrests showed exactly where the people left their arms, each time, every time. “Listen,” said the woman, “I’m just about ready to kick it.”

“To kick it?” said the man. Neither looked at the other, just straight ahead.

“The bucket,” she said. “To die.”

“Right,” said he. “So what’s stopping you?”

“You always promised you’d die first.”

“I did?”

“Yes. I expected you to remember.” There was a drop of resentment in her voice, lost within the bucket of resentment in her everyday tone.

“Well. Sorry.” There was no apology in his.

“It’s okay.” She waited. “So?”

“So what?”

“You promised.”

“I’m not ready to go.”

Her fingers drummed on her armrest. “You should get ready, then.”

“I’m in no hurry. Still working on my memoirs. Still like seeing the grandkids. Figure I got a couple years more.”

“But I’m ready to go.”

“Then I’ll miss you.”

“But you promised!”

“What does it matter? You’ll be gone.”

“I’m not going to die knowing you were a liar!”

“Then you’ll just have to wait.”

“Not for long,” she said. “How was your coffee?”