I was sitting in a worn-down armchair, lost in thought. Hector had fallen asleep across from me in the middle of the game; his wrinkly head just hanging there, like a dead bird. A drip of drool was bravely hanging from the corner of his mouth, clutching for dear life. I thought about moving his bishop to a less favorable position but wondered instead what kind of person cheats at chess. I could feel a cold shadow looming over me, then a slight touch on my shoulder. It was cold and hard. I didn't have to turn around to see who it was, not this time. Sometimes… you just know. "Can I finish my game?" I asked.

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"You had 80 years."

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"Why don’t you take him instead, he’s practically dead already."

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"Believe it or not, he has 14 more years left in him."

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"You don’t say."

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"OK, let's hit the road, I got places to be later. A train is about to derail tonight after nine," the voice said calmly.

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I shrugged, got up and turned around to face him. There he was, a figure in a black robe, just like in the stories. We walked toward the door like two friends leaving a party. I looked behind me one last time and saw my body in that chair across from Hector. Both of our heads were hanging now. Just two old farts who’d fallen asleep by the window, but only one of them would wake up again.

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A black limo pulled up to the sidewalk and we got in. Nothing beats a classy exit. "Where exactly are we going?" I asked.

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"If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me."

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As the car window closed with a buzzing sound, I had a smile on my face. Finally, I was going to meet Sinatra.

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"We’ve got a long way ahead of us," the Reaper said. "Why don’t you tell me your story?"

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"All of it?" I wondered.

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"Well, please feel free to leave out the boring parts."

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I was silent for a while. "I think you’re gonna like this one."

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I was born in this city and spent all my life here. It can be a lonesome place, and I am saying that as one who wasn’t exactly a people person. Millions of independent organisms live alongside—not with one another. This is a city where people tend to die stupid deaths too; like my friend Raymond, you see. He served in a couple of wars, survived all kinds of shootouts and shellings, only to be stabbed down less than a mile from his apartment by a 17-year-old kid over 39 bucks and an expired burger coupon.