on his days off, the reaper goes to the grocery store and stands in front of the peaches for too long. watches the fluorescent light shiver against their skin, picks one up, puts it back. he doesn’t eat. doesn’t need to. but sometimes he wishes he could.

he takes the long way home, through the park, past the playground where a child stares at him too long, then cries. their mother pulls them close, whispers something like a prayer. he keeps walking.

at home, the apartment smells like dust. there are no windows, but the wind still gets in. he kicks off his boots, sits on the couch, turns on the tv—static. always static. sometimes he wonders if there’s another him, in another place, who gets sitcom reruns and late-night infomercials instead.

he tries to sleep. his bed is a suggestion, a shape in the dark. he lays down anyway. he dreams, sometimes. not of people, not of the ones he’s taken. just colors. red, blue, gold. peach.

in the morning, he gets up, puts his boots back on. the scythe is waiting by the door, patient. another day, another dozen names. the world does not stop dying just because he is tired.