Undertaker dating onlinedatingsuccess only 45

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I was dating somebody who had stitched a suicide's wrists shut after the fact.

All with the same two hands that rubbed my back between the shoulder blades, in exactly the right spot.

He didn't taunt death by driving sports cars around sharp corners with his eyes closed.

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I reached for a tissue and didn't have to reach far -- there were boxes of tissues everywhere. "Can you imagine what the Kennedy family would do if they knew what was going on in this room now? His mellow, masculine voice brought to mind images of a methodical patent attorney or perhaps an oceanographer. That you're not gonna stab my eyes out with an ice pick when I get in the car?

He had this whole mortality thing out of his system.

He didn't brood like a tortured artist with a subconscious death wish.

Maybe I felt that if he liked me enough, he could talk his buddy the Reaper out of taking me, pull some strings. Why not run a coffee bar, design fabrics, program computers or install alarm systems?

Or perhaps I was just testing my own limits, like when you're a kid and you stand in the dark in front of the bathroom mirror and shine a flashlight under your face to try and scare yourself: I'm dating an undertaker ... Then again, I might have just liked him for him, and this undertaker thing was just what he did for a living. What kind of a person has, as a goal in life, the desire to delay the decomposition of human bodies, dress them in formal wear and display them in anti-corrosive boxes?

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