How Do Mechs Love?

Constraints: 1) Paragraphs can be no less than 100 characters and no more than 140 characters. 2) The two protagonists have to be two deceased people of different genders from history. 3) By the end of the story, the protagonists need to discover a dead body. 4) One of the two protagonists has to say, “I’m getting too old for this shit.” 5) By the time the protagonists find the dead body, one or both of them have to reveal a secret about them.

They sat at a bench outside a Winchell’s near Slauson Ave. Traffic rushed past as they glared at each other over their coffee and donuts. 

Estelle Getty grimaced at him. Sigmund Freud checked his watch and rolled his eyes behind his rounded glasses. They exchanged sighs.

“This is the worst first date ever.” She thought shaking her head. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” She nibbled her bear claw.

It was a cold war of awkward silences. Both resolved not to speak. He budged first. “How do you tell a girl on a bus that her fly is down?”

She clicked her tongue and ran it across her cheek. “Why would you ask me that? What kind of question is that to ask someone?”

He scratched his beard of whitest sheep’s wool. While staring at a car, he sighed. “Think of it as a question of ethics. Substitute man in.”

“Well, where am I sitting?” She asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“You’re sitting in the front.”

“Where is the man?”

“Here.” He said grabbing a napkin. “Let me draw you a diagram.”

She rolled her eyes. “Enough with the diagrams, fucking Bruno Latour…”

“I’d say nothing.”

“You would let them walk around embarrassing themselves?”

“It’d be less awkward than telling them.”

“Hmm, Fair enough. Consider this. What if he is going on a date? If you say nothing then he could have a lousy first impression. You could ruin his life.”

She laughed. “It couldn’t be worse than this date.”

He clutched his chest. “What do you mean?”

“This has been the worst date in my life.”

Removing his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It has been terrible, hasn’t it? Well, do you want to go see a dead body?”

Behind her giant plastic glasses, she narrowed her eyes at him. “You know all those years working on Golden Girls; I never saw a dead body.”

He smiled for the first time. “How does that make you feel?” “Honestly, a bit cheated. All those old broads and no corpse. I got gypped.”

He shook his head. “Let’s go. It’s not far. About two block away from here.” They both got up and threw away their coffee, both smiling.

The streets were thick with people, and Sigmund shoved his way through the blockades. Estelle trailed close behind him. Soon they arrived.

The alley was narrow and damp. The sun assaulted them as they stood at the mouth of the alley. Trash strewn all over caused a bad stench.

“Kinda narrow. How deep is it in there?” She asked.

“It’s in there fairly deep, but I know my way around. You’ll be safe with me.”

Sigmund took the lead and navigated through the tight corridors of trash. Estelle held his hand following closely behind.

“It smells like shit in here.” She plugged her nose.

“The bowels let loose once you die vacating all waste. That smell is expected.”

“We’re here.” Then there it was. Tattered clothes. Flesh crawling with maggots. Puddles of coagulated blood. Pale skin shining in the dark.

“It’s so gross. Good god.” Goose flesh formed all over her.

“It reminds you of what is important.” He bowed his head. The smell was pungent.

“This may not be the best time to say this, but I’m gay.” He said.

“What?”

“I figured I should tell you now. Thanks for being a friend.”

Then he was gone. The body was silent witness to the worst date in all of history. She stood shocked while maggots crawled around her feet.