by Georges Godeau
Death called me on the phone. She told me that I interested her, that she could drop by soon, yet she couldn’t say exactly when.
Deferential, I waited for a while, and then, without news of her, I now go out, I go about my business.
Death has an ugly name. She should call herself drop-wort, or shellfish, or sun. There are plenty of gaudy names that aren’t a sack of soot.
Translated by Kathleen McGookey