The alley way was precariously narrow, slicing down two adjacent cyber-punky buildings. The moist ground was of cracked concrete and littered with grime and futuristic amazon boxes.

Emerson walked down the thin passage to greet a shady man in a big, puffy jacket.

“Evening,” Emerson said.

“Howdy,” the shady man replied dubiously.

Emerson’s throat tightened in fear, and he swallowed a cartoonishly large amount of saliva. Gulp!

“So, y-you got the goods?”

“Probably,” the shady man retorted with a crooked grimace.

The man opened his puffy jacket to reveal an assortment of pockets, each holding a different powdery substance. “You wanted the powder that tells you how you’ll die, right?”

“Nah just cocaine,” Emerson said.

“Well I’m out of that right now so you’re taking the sleepy death powder.”

“What? No way!”

“What if I told you it was the most accurate sleep powder on the market? No other powder can predict your death as accurately as this!”

“Ugh, fine! You’re getting 1 star on your website, though.”

The shady man was visually distraught by Emersons words — he was shaking and holding back tears — but he proceeded to hand over the sleep powder anyways.

“Bruh,” Emerson muttered.

That night, Emerson applied the powder on top of his eyelids and subsequently fell asleep. He was a bit of a snorer, so his neighbors prepared themselves for another sleepless night. They had not slept ever since Emerson moved into the apartment, which was 3 months ago.

In his dream, Emerson was standing in a white void. He looked around frantically to see what would happen. How would he die?

A tall figure in white robes and a grey beard emerged from behind.

Emerson shrieked, “WHO ARE YOU?”

The figure spoke. “Hey man. I’m god!”

“Dude no way.”

“Yes way!”

“Do you know how I will die?”

“Yeah, in your sleep.”

“When?”

“Mmmmm, about 2 minutes ago.”

Emerson was stunned. “I beg your absolute pardon?”

God explained, “Yeah the powder you put on your face was highly toxic. You died 2 minutes ago.”

“Huh.”

He stood there awkwardly, twiddling his thumbs not knowing what to say to the all-knowing being that stood before him. It reminded him of his apartment elevator and the interactions he would have with his neighbors.

A neighbor would walk into the elevator and Emerson would go, “Hey Sheryl, how is your day going?”

And Sheryl would respond, “Not great, I had terrible sleep last night. Some bozo wouldn’t stop snoring.”

And then they would wait in the elevator together with no other words being exchanged. To add insult to injury, the elevator took ten excruciating minutes to get up to their floor, which was floor 230.

To break these long periods of stillness, Emerson would say, “awkward silence!” It did not help to ease the tension, however, it was a habit Emerson could not shake.

“Awkward silence!” Emerson said to God.

“Oh. Am I awkward?” God asked.

“A little”

“Well at least I’m not dead.”

“Damn.”