She sat at the kitchen table and stirred the coffee. David lay in the living room.
Should she call an ambulance? His limbs struck out and his skin bore dark-and-yellow mineral veins. David had died, like his rocks.
He worked – had worked – as a geologist. Rocks grow despite being dead, and they never hurry. She stirred the coffeee.
Would David become a stone too? Sometimes creatures die and become rocks, and they put them in museums. People like David study them. She stirred the coffee.
She had gone to bed. David stayed to finish watching the film. They had argued.
“David never organizes his time. He will be late for work”, she thought.
She warned him he’d oversleep. Who would slice the rocks and look at them under the microscope now? If she looked at him under one, what would she see? Fading memories? The bacteria beginning to eat at his cells? Maybe she would see small crystals and pores. Perhaps she’d be able to categorize him.
She stirred the coffee.