Mr and Mrs Harley huddled close on their sofa, hot tea pressed between their legs to fight the cold that their patterned blankets could not ward off, and began to discuss death. They were both mildly aware that the discussion of this matter had at this point become a habit (if not a ritual), and had not yet interrogated why the subject kept cropping up. They were both getting on, but not old; both had experienced the deaths of at least a parent, but not - thank god - any close friends; they were not morbidly inclined, neither were they naive or jumpy at the matter. As the years had gone on, they just found themselves more comfortable thinking on death in a way that they hadn't in their prime.
Mr Harley turned to Mrs Harley and asked: "How would you like best to die?"
"Why, you offering?"
Mrs Harley barely raised her eyes from the TV.
"If you'd like. I can guarantee results, of course, depending upon the method of dispatch. Only nothing to do with hanging I beg, you know how poor I am with a knot. Too fiddly for me."
Mrs Harley smiled slightly. She mused it over as she watched the screen.
"I think... hmm. Maybe not."
"What?"
"Ah, it's a stupid idea I had. I realise now I'm wrong so best not ponder."
"Go on," replied Mr Harley. "You must say now. Don't leave me hanging. I told you I'm bad with hanging."
Mrs Harley fiddled with her phone briefly, before tutting in an exaggerated way, and tossing it to the coffee table.
"So? Are you going to tell me?" pressed Mr Harley.
"Well, I was going to say drowning. I'd heard it was rather pleasant. I just went to check it but it turns out googling 'is drowning a nice way to die' gives you about 4 different warning notifications from Google, the Salvation Army, the NHS, who knows who else, worried that you may do it!"
She scoffed.
"I mean I understand the intent but Christ, how on earth can any murder mystery or detective writer do any research? Wouldn't surprise me if they were put on a list and carted off to prison? And for what? Trying to find out how long it would take someone to pass from a slit throat - or what noise you'd make upon being stabbed in the lung? No wonder it's only James Patterson that is able to write any thrillers at all, he must have gold standard lawyers to keep him off the Interpol list."
"They must have gold standard lawyers, you mean."
Mrs Harley looked perplexed at him.
"Is he non bisexual then?"
"It's non binary, love." Mr Harley stifled a chuckle. "And no, I mean he's multiple people! Just a pen name I'd heard. Explains how he writes so many - there's about 12 of them in a factory somewhere. Probably not paid the minimum wage I'd guess."
Mrs Harley scoffed. She reached over to her phone, and absent-mindedly tapped around on it, for no particular reason.
Several moments passed.
"So why did you bring it up then?" inquired Mrs Harley.
"Hmm?"
"How I'd want to die?"
"Oh." Mr Harley looked upwards, as if he was figuring out a puzzle.
"No great reason," he responded, "I suppose it's something I think about now and then."
"Oh yes?"
"Yeah, I suppose. I guess I'm aware that we're well into our fifties. No children to know of - not that I mind, I'm happy with the course of our life - and no great many friends. Of course we have Vicky, but she's in Devon. I've got Tom and you have Iris, but in all not anyone who would mourn us too badly. Well - they would of course, but I suppose I mean that I could die right now and be. Well you know."
"I'm sure I don't."
"Well... satisfied I guess," he said with a shrug.
"Satisfied!" she exclaimed. "Christ John, you're not even halfway through your fifties and you're talking like you're on your deathbed! What on earth do you mean?"
John shot her a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and with an indignant tone replied: "God I'm not suicidal or anything! I just mean that... well, I don't know. I suppose that I was thinking; we're getting to that stage now where one starts to wonder. And I've mulled it over, selfishly, and I've come to the conclusion that I would much rather die earlier than you."
"Oh yes? And leave me with all the stress? The funeral arrangements, single income, downsizing, and eventually sorting myself into a retirement home? Christ above - they say chivalry isn't dead!"
"Oh come off it!" John's eyes twinkled. "You know you'd be better dealing with loss than I would! I don't know what I'd do. I think I'd be completely lost. You'd be able to pull through, you're much more capable than I in such matters."
He pushed himself closer, wrapping her in a submissive doting hug. She pushed him away playfully.
"Oh so you think you can just give me that rubbish and make me swoon for you? Give me the old 'oh you're so much better at dealing with this' schtick?"
She tickled him when he refused to get off, playfully kicking and pushing him with her feet in the sides, forcing him to the far end of the sofa.
"Careful, you're gonna knock my tea over!" he said.
"Oh, boo hoo! I suppose I'll be well equipped to deal with such a loss! I'm so good at these things, the loss of a husband, the loss of a tea! I'm Mrs Automaton, beep boop, problem here, beep boop, problem solved! You must think yourself a true master manipulator, expecting me to fall for such tosh!"
"Ah! Stop stop! I'm sorry!" he replied, pushing her away with one hand, the other desperately finding a seat for his tea. He held her legs tight with one arm, and looked at his phone in the other, until she got bored with the game. She eventually did.
He let the moment sit for a while.
"Though I do think you would be better at it than me," he said. "In all seriousness."
Mrs Harley kept up the coy pretense as long as she could, before leaping on him, melting herself onto his chest in a comfortable hug.
"I daresay I would be - but still I would die without you."
She looked deep into his eyes, and continued:
"I know you're a little more emotional than me. Outwardly I mean. But I truly love you more than anything in this world. If you were to pass on, I would be bedridden for months. Years perhaps. I love you, John."
"I love you more, Julia."
She smiled.
"I doubt that."
They lay there for some time. He stroked her hair softly with his thumb, gently. He felt the bristles of her hair move beneath his finger. They were slightly brittle now, not massively, but more than they were when they were both young. He could feel the product, the dyes, the age. It was vibrant and full, yet faltering slightly. Gorgeous, but slightly dampened. Not wilted but approaching it.
He loved that hair.
After a long pause, he said:
"Carbon monoxide."
"Hmm?" she said absently.
"Carbon monoxide. That's how I'd go. A leak in the night. We both fall asleep together, and some pipe bursts, and we just don't wake up. It's meant to be fairly peaceful, that. We'll die on the same night, have the same funeral with all of our friends present, and be buried in the same grave. Wouldn't that be nice? We just go to sleep in each other's arms, and that's that. How does that sound?"
Mrs Harley yawned.
"Julia? We haven't sprung a leak have we? You still with me?"
She rubbed her eyes slightly. "Yeah I'm with you." She looked up at him. "What did you say?"
"I said I'd die in our sleep. Together. Carbon monoxide - we wouldn't have to be apart then. Honestly it was quite poetic. You'll not get something so bloody nice out of me again!"
Mrs Harley yawned, then smiled. "Sounds good to me. You must promise to spoon me though. I know you get too hot, but given it would be our last night, I'd hope you could grant me that much."
"Sure thing," beamed Mr Harley, turning off the TV.
"I think I could manage that."