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marriage can, provided we avoid the excesses, things like . . . well, the BeautifulMemory Picture for example."1 look blank, confused, uncomprehending. My thoughts are fragmented; myemotions in turmoil."You've heard of it surely?" you say. "Embalming followed by public display. Thetechniques are amazingly advanced."My lack of curiosity disappoints. You are used to my total absorption in yourwork, my need to know and understand all that concerns you. Reticence you findunbecoming.For a moment you study my face, your gaze concerned."I don't condone it you know."1 nod."It's detrimental - what else could it be?" you ask, hands upturned. But youdo not wait for an answer, your smooth, clear voice sailing over my silence withdetails of painting and restructuring, colouring and cutting. Of bodies beautified.I try not to listen, to obstruct the honeyed tones that describe the corpses peoplingmy dreams.The waves of panic rise. Moistured, manicured hands, their lifeless fingerstwitching, begin to move, to beckon.You catch sight of my expression. I see your eyes through the haze that threatensto obliterate all vision. You stop reluctantly."I'm boring you," you say with a slight trace of resentment.I shake my head feebly."What is it then?" you ask. "Feeling squeamish?""No," I say, endeavouring to inject false liveliness into my words. "I'm just rundown and tired, that's alL"You nod. "You work too hard. You always did. It'll catch up with you one dayif you don't start taking it easy."I agree. Totally.We look at each other across the room's sudden stillness. Now, my head urges,speak.You smile, a soft gentle smile and my resolve strengthens. I am tempted to throwmyself upon your knees and pour forth a story that has long been a daily part ofyour working life. I am afraid. Mraid of my own mortality. I do not want to die."A couple of old workaholics," you say, still smiling. "We're two of a kind -living for our careers and placing them before all others. But there's no point inoverdoing it, civilized though it be."I stare hard into your face, forcing myself to remain both seated and outwardlycalm. I never put anything before you, I think dully, not even myself.Your large, fine hands move emphatically. "You're no good to anyone if you bumout. Not in my job certainly, nor in yours either I should imagine." The lines ofyour face gradually change, your attention once again returning to the dead anddying that hold your fit and able body captive. "Who would listen if I became anembodiment of their fears?" you ask. "Not a soul. To be successful in my vocationyou have to look it - and that's impossible if stress and ill health stalk you everystep of the way. People have quite well defined concepts of death you know."I nod, knowing. Knowing in every white cell of my body.Your voice resonates, its fine timbre playing memories chords."... my reputation is based on confronting and allaying the stereotypes ..."The words flow on. My muteness, my preoccupation means nothing. You do notallow yourself to be distracted from your recitation.Your eyes, focused on mine, see death in the abstract, body upon body counselledand cremated. I am merely an audience, my presence precipitating your mentaljourney through the past we once shared. Had you been anyone else I would haveWESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989 67