She was certain that we would either get caught and arrested or piss off the spirits of all the people in the ground.

“Look,” I implored, arms spread wide, “this place is so big nobody will ever find us if we choose the right spot.”

“And the ghosts?”
“The spirits aren’t going to be here—unless all these people were buried alive.”

She offered a strained smile of defeat. I took her hand, leading her away from the sunlight, tour busses, and plots of important people.

“Over there.” I gestured toward a gloomy stone that had the rejected air of being cast off by the other stones.

She bent over and gripped the top with both hands while I yanked her pants down.

“Um, wait.”

“Why?”

“This stone has your name on it.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious. Look.”

I leaned over her, my now flaccid penis brushing against her bare ass. I rolled my eyes and scoffed.

“That doesn’t concern you?”

“Why would it?”

“It says you die today.”

Just before my gruesome death, I felt a figure lurch in my periphery and heard her scream—“K! Stop it!”—as the jealous knife of her husband sank repeatedly into my flesh.