(This was greatly influenced by Matthea Harvey's piece "The Straightforward Mermaid", which I read in the New Yorker a few days ago. Love the last line...click that link and check it out)
The two zombies sit side-by-side in their musty oversized arm chairs during the late afternoons, and from there they watch the cat chase sunspots on the carpet. Ned, on the right, has dirt in the creases of his elbow and a rotting eye. Susan, to the left, wears a dress with moldy lace trim. “I’d rather learn the Argentinean Tango this afternoon, Ned,” she says, twirling from her chair, straw-like hair bouncing (almost with vitality) from her shoulders. Their gray hands clasp, dust flies from the bottom of their feet, the cat stares, entranced from his spot near the curtains. He watches their yellow-toenails jumping, the string from their deteriorating clothing looping through the air in play. “I should charge you for this,” Ned jokes and they sit back down, exhausted. Sometimes they just look at each other, that knowing glance after years together on earth and under, laughing. It’s still utterly hysterical to them that their favorite part of the house is the living room. As dusk falls, they collect themselves and make for the door, arms outstretched stiffly, practicing their open-mouthed stare in the mirror in the foyer. Ned lumbers toward Susan and asks if it was scary enough. Susan says he needs to practice his guttural growl if he wants to be truly terrifying. As they wander the city streets, Ned throws a wink at Susan. Zombies love that sort of private joke.
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