We met the usual way: while being chased by giant wasps in the upper circles of hell.
We hit it off from the get-go, and found we had so much in common: two lustful gluttons with a deep affection for dogs.
It was nice to meet someone offline for a change. It felt organic, serendipitous.
We started going on dates, skating across frozen lakes, flying kites in the infernal winds. I showed her how to push a boulder. She showed me how to throng.
It was plain to see: we were in love.
People would smile at us in the street. Or maybe they were grimacing—down here, it’s hard to tell.
Inevitably, our romance had its early doubters.
“It won’t last,” our friends would say. “You guys are literally a match made in hell.”
But once we had been together for a couple of millennia, they stopped questioning our suitability.
Neither of us wanted kids, which was totally fine. We adopted a nice three-headed hound and have never looked back.
“It won’t last,” our friends would say. “You guys are literally a match made in hell.”
Most couples eventually run out of things to say to each other, but not us! We’re blessed with conversational fodder, whether it’s the frighteningly variable weather (ice rain one day, fiery winds the next) or our mounting list of ailments (boils, burns, backaches).
There have been bumps along the way. For one, I never have gotten used to living so close to her parents. Her dad is always popping over to borrow our lawn mower, her mom to burden us with leftovers. And with my parents (saints both) spending eternity elsewhere, it’s basically a given that we spend every holiday with them.
Whatever. No relationship is perfect. What I do know is that I wouldn’t want to do the afterlife with anyone else. Whether we are being buffeted by an unending tempest or thrust into the mud of damned souls, it’s more bearable with her by my side. In life, in love, can we really ask for anything more?
Well, time has softened me. We have been together now for more than 5,000 years, and I admit, I have become something of a sentimentalist. I’m often saying or doing the schmaltziest things.
The other day, we took a hot-air-balloon ride. (In hell, it’s easy to find a thermal.)
And when we returned to our bed of fire, I had sprinkled it with the petals of 12 dozen red roses.
I was afraid I’d gone too far, but when my love looked at their ashy outlines, I could tell she was touched.
“I want to stay entwined in your arms for all of eternity,” I said as I embraced her, our burned flesh tacky like flypaper.
And, so far, we have, writhing away in the lake of fire, taking the occasional break to have our fingernails pulled, or to be flayed, but always together.
Isn’t love wonderful?
Simon Webster is an Australia-based journalist
