When I Died, He Trampled on my Ashes

It was the third day after I died when my phone rang with the coroner’s office calling to identify my body.

“Dead is dead,” Jake said, his voice muffled as he held the phone to his ear, still tangled in the sheets with some girl. “Cremate her, then call me.”

My remains were sent into the incinerator, reduced to ashes.

The office contacted him again, relaying that the cremation was complete, the ashes were ready.

He let out an annoyed “Tch,” like he was bothered and inconvenienced.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming.”

Jake finally showed up two hours later.

His clothes were a mess, his shirt collar sporting a bright red lipstick stain.