Mr. Reaper

The other night I woke up and the Grim Reaper was crouching--scythe-less--outside our bedroom window.

Now, I knew this wasn't possible:

1) Our window sill is pretty narrow, so the Grim Reaper couldn't crouch on it.

2) The Grim Reaper isn't real.

Still, some play of light shining on some Grim Reaper-shaped object had cast a very Grim Reaper-esque silhouette, and I was scared.

"Babe," I whispered, lifting my head a fraction of an inch so as not to let the Reaper know I had seen him. "Tiffany, are you awake?"

She groaned, in deep sleep. I patted my night stand until I found my glasses and held them up backwards to my eyes to see our alarm clock.

3:42 a.m.

I looked back at the window. The Reaper was still there, shoulders hunched, wearing an overcoat.

I'm sure it's nothing, I said to myself, closing my eyes.

They opened again.

Although I don't believe in the Grim Reaper, there are lots of homeless men who wander around outside our apartment building in overcoats. I was dubious that any of them could fit on our window sill either, but still. Such things cannot be left to chance.

I sighed loudly, hoping to wake Tiffany, but she didn't move.

Slowly, I slid out from under the covers and crawled across the room to the window, which was open a few inches. Our blinds were drawn and closed completely. I cautiously stuck my hand through two of the blinds, where the Reaper's right hip was.

You will all be relieved to hear, I'm sure, that my hand encountered nothing but air.

My plan, if I had touched a right hip, was to push.

As it was, I stood, walked upright back to my side of the bed, slid back under the covers and went to sleep.