I looked at the woman across from me: purple-silver hair, playful green eyes, all goth vibes. Her profile said she loved the macabre, Adventure Time, gaming, and animals—hopefully not tigers.

  Tigers are assholes.

  “So, Gray.” Alexia leaned on the table, resting her chin on her clasped hands. “Tell me more about yourself. Mister Mysterious.”

  My profile was light on details.

  Likes: animals, beer, The Golden Girls.

  Hates: Crocs, tigers, Ted Danson—smug asshole.

  Death shouldn’t be dating. Death shouldn’t have a roommate who watches soap operas and knits. Yet, here we are… in a three-piece suit with a hood, knitted by Dawn.

  “I work a lot and live with an old woman named Dawn.”

  I chuckled.

  “She named herself after our favorite soap—Dawn of the Season.”

  Her expression blanked. This always happens. I match on the apps—Tinder, Grindr, Farmers Only, Hogwarts Humps.

  Then they try to exorcise me. Once, a guy tried to beat me with a bat yelling, “You’re vulnerable to blunt damage!”

  “Okay, follow-up questions.” She held up her index finger.

  “A: What do you do for work?”

  She flicked up her middle finger.

  “B: What’s your relationship with Dawn?”

  Then wiggled her ring finger with a grin.

  “And C: Soap operas?”

  This is normal.

  “A: I’m DEATH.

  When people die, I reap their souls and escort them to the next life.

  I’m not evil. Or scary. Or a sociopath. I perform a necessary task. I prevent chaos from ruling the world.

  B: Dawn calls herself my BFF; she’s more like my grandma. She chose to ignore her scheduled death date—which never happens—so I was stuck at her place for three weeks. After that, she… moved in. Changed her name. Started writing smutty ‘Price Is Right’ fan-fiction, then redecorated my pocket dimension.

  C: It was all her fault.”

  She stared at me, then smiled. “That’s the most adorable meet-cute I’ve ever heard.”

  “Good evening, madame, sir—”

  “I prefer ser.”

  “My apologies, ser.”

  “No worries.” I winced. I’m picking up Dawn’s idioms.

  Alexia smiled. “Your profile didn’t mention you’re non-binary.”

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  “DEATH doesn’t recognize gender.”

  “Very forward thinking. How would we… you know…“

  She bumped her fists together a few times.

  I turned to the waitress.

  “Drinks to start? Rubber Duck IPA—if you have it. Otherwise, any IPA.”

  “I’d like the same,” Alexia said.

  “Your smile is captivating, Alexia. You must have a great dentist.”

  “Nah, I just paint them white every morning. Much cheaper.”

  I caught the mischievous grin. “I might need to try that, keeping all these bones polished is a pain.”

  I lowered my hood to reveal my skull: blank eye sockets, nose drawn on by Dawn.

  “So, you’re really a skeleton in a cloak? That explains the scarf—I assumed you were a hipster. Now, I really want to know how we’d—”

  The waitress brought our drinks, glanced at my skull, then asked if we were ready to order.

  Alexia mouthed ‘fuck’, then turned toward the waitress.

  “We’re ready. I’ll have the porterhouse, medium rare, baked potato, all the fixins’, and a Caesar salad.”

  I looked at her, amazed.

  “I’ll take the al pastor street tacos.”

  She repeated our order then headed for the kitchen.

  I flipped my hood up, then back down—revealing a striking face, mysterious gray eyes, and long black hair.

  Alexia watched, wide-eyed, and whispered, “Witch.”

  “Back in the day, the Reapers thought looking like skeletons comforted people. Probably because they lived surrounded by death. Plague, endless wars, even their neighbors were suspect. Hell—doctors were draining people's blood willy-nilly.”

  “Sounds grim.”

  “It was,” I agreed. “After World War Two, my predecessor decided enough with the bones. We started taking human forms to make the job less… terrifying.”

  I growled. “Except for Tiger Reaper.”

  Alexia was captivated. My dates have never gone this well. Once someone asked if they could use my skull as a betta tank. Another, a bong.

  “Tigers are assholes. Like that one always pouncing the rabbit and singing about it.”

  I nodded like I understood. “Classic tiger behavior.”

  “So…” she leaned in. “Are you able to have sex?”

  “I can have sex. Having no gender doesn't mean I don’t have genitals. In fact, I have more than average.”

  The waitress brought our food, then looked at me with lust-filled eyes. “I like the skin, and…” She looked at my crotch and grinned.

  I didn’t know what to do. Should I say something?

  Alexia cleared her throat. “Looks great. Nothing else. Thanks.”

  Her tone could slice the fabric of reality.

  I watched, transfixed, as the porterhouse disappeared.

  “Enough about me. What do you do?”

  “I work at a no-kill shelter, rehabilitating sick and abused animals. Dogs, frogs, hedgehogs, anything ending in ‘ogs.’” She gave me a sly grin.

  “Wow, you’re amazing.” I blurted, surprised by how much I meant it.

  “I know,” she said, then softened. “Honestly—I think you are, too. Your job sounds heavy and mentally exhausting. I’m glad you have Dawn to help keep you grounded.”

  “I’m very grateful. She’s transformed my life. Do you have a Dawn?”

  “I have a crazy roommate. The rest of my friends and family are back home.” She smiled. “Someone like you could change that.”

  Her plate was clean. How? It’d been five minutes. I finally picked up a taco.

  “I would like that very much.” I flushed. Perks of having skin. “This evening ranks up there with karaoke margarita night with Dawn—top of the list.”

  Here comes the waitress and her pervy eyes.

  “Is there anything else I can get y’all? Dessert?” She looked at me. “My phone number.”

  “We’re good. Let’s go, Gray.”

  She grabbed my hand, and we started walking.

  “Wait, you didn’t pay!” the waitress yelled.

  I walked back and plopped a gold bar on the table.

  The waitress stared, dumbfounded.

  We walked out hand in hand.

  “Ice cream?”

  “Nah.” She winked. “I want to see your pocket dimension.”