What Happens Next?

Nothing

I can count the number of times I've met hubby for lunch during his busy work week:  almost never.  Maybe once a year, if that.  Dude's too busy having lunch with other people or sitting at his desk, doing important stuff.  But yesterday, he carved out time and we met our friends Philippe and Carol at a cute Italian place in Toluca Lake.  We talked kids, movies, tv and books.  We shared our mutual hatred of "Inception."  We took a quick detour into real estate.  We asked each other why we weren't all independently wealthy by now.  And then, Philippe shifted gears.  "Let's change the topic.  What do you think happens when we die?"

Well.  That was unexpected, but it certainly got our attention.  "Nothing," said hubby.  Philippe looked at him.  "So, we die and that's it."  "Yep," said hubby, with absolutely authority, like he had the inside track.  Philippe looked at me.  "Why do you think happens?"  I cleared my throat.  I didn't want to babble.  Philippe and Carol are professors.  They might give me a bad grade for overall incoherence.  "I think..."  Philippe leaned in; he knew I had something deep to share.  "Um... I think I don't know what I think.  What do you think?" I asked him.  "Where's the men's room?" he said, getting up.  "Hang on.  You can't raise a topic like death and go use the bathroom."  "Sorry."  Off he went.  I glanced at his wife.  "That's Philippe," she said.  We moved on to weightier matters, like who wanted decaf or regular.  By the time Philippe returned, I told him, "We're done with death."  "Good," he said.  "It's too depressing."