Poached

As in:

By the time it was his time, Dominic Mattos thought he would transfer into the light. True, the methods he’d adopted during his hey days were not upstanding. There’s a reason they call it the black market, after all, even though he was inclined to explain that he’d never actually asked for an elephant to be killed or for a rain forest to be denuded. As for the sexual tourism, he explained (to himself) that it was primarily about relationship building and strengthening cross-cultural ties.

Dominic took pride on being a closer. And he had finished well, in his opinion. In his last years, his donations to the general and building funds had more than earned him the welcome of his church and the notice of the archbishop. Moreover, everything had been comprehensively, though euphemistically, confessed. So there seemed to be no need to wallow in regret or sorrow.

And, so, yes, come the time, he was surprised and disappointed not to be levitated and bathed in a peaceful warmth. Instead he found himself in a green room, with a formica coffee table stacked with National Geographics and puzzle books. He was curious about the Hubble telescope, honestly, but even more anxious about his fate. So he only stared at the table.

“The Lord will see you now,” explained an angel dressed as a waitress. She smiled curtly and held open a swinging door.

The diner on the other side of the door was empty, except for God, who sat alone at a small circular table. On his plate were two gleaming poached eggs, rye toast, and sliced strawberries dusted with powdered sugar. On a side plate was a small raft of steamed asparagus, lightly doused in real butter. God’s coffee had been served in a classic diner cup, bone white, with thin green lines highlighting both the lip of the cup and the edge of the saucer beneath it. It surprised Dominic that God had a small mole on his chin.

“Thank you for coming,” God said, completely aware of the irony.

“The pleasure’s all mine?” Dominic asked, increasingly aware that this was not the entrance to heaven.

“Do you know why you’re here?” God asked.

“Because I don’t have a conscience?” Dominic replied.

“That’s a decent start,” God said. “What else?”

At that moment Dominic heard the swinging doors open again. A handsome but stoic Filipino waiter set a plate down and gracefully removed the silver dish cover.

Before him was an assortment of fried crickets and okra.

Dominic didn’t flinch, but allowed his face to register his dismay. He studied the crickets and sniffed the foul smell of the okra (which he’d always hated). These were important clues to his fate and it slowly, though painfully, began to sink in that God had measured him perfectly. It inspired an awkward silence.

“Would you mind sharing an egg and some of your asparagus?” he finally asked.