Death and Birth sat chatting idly over coffee, though Death always only drank White Tea. They had, as usual, business to transact, an exchange of souls. They kept each other in business, Death and Birth, and had for longer than ever. Their relationship had not always been pleasant, having started their work long ago with the fervor of competition, each one supposing the other to be an enemy. Time has a way, however, of showing all conflict to be vanity and pretense. These days they sit, when they meet, in quiet regard and acceptance, each understanding the other intimately. Death sips his tea, never finishing it all before it gets cold, leaving the leafy bits floating in the clear, cold dregs. Birth drinks her coffee with milk and a bit of sugar, and drinks it all while it's hot. Once, many years ago, they fell in love for a time, but it didn't last long. Now they laugh about their love and their hate and they talk the talk of family and friends.
"These wars," Death says, looking with chilly disdain into the last of his lukewarm brew, "they're killing me. Too much work for one man."
"I bet," Birth says distractedly, and she sighs. "I wish it were Spring."
"It must be Spring somewhere, right?"
She shakes her head. "You still don't get the seasons. You never will."
"It's gotta be Spring somewhere," he answers, setting his cup on the table and pushing it away dismissively. Without another word, he stands to go.
"See you soon," Birth calls after him, but he's already gone.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
