Chris tells me this, without any pretension.
“I don’t know if I want to be a zombie,” I say.
I have thought about this carefully. That one day, I would want to sign a DNR order. That in case of the zombie apocalypse, perhaps caused by a vegetarian type food like quinoa, I would prefer to survive. And if bitten, I would rather die than to cause others the pain of my own bites. Chris said that he would join me. “Wouldn’t it be great if we were eating people together?” he says.
“But then I wouldn’t be myself,” I say, thinking of rotting skin and my mindless head, devoid of any of the Jennifer personality beyond the general weak constitution.
“Okay,” he agrees. “But just believe me when there are zombies. Don’t disbelieve me like all those characters on TV and movies. Believe me when I say that there are zombies. We will need a safe word.”