The thick bunch of newspaper flew upward only to ease back down in a slow and deliberate zigzagging motion, the way gravity is supposed to pull it down. Ricky Del Mar watched it, thinking of nothing in particular. The humidity was making it hard for him to think. He picked the Daily Inquirer with a single jerky movement of his right hand and flipped through the pages, knowing exactly what he was looking for, having looked at it at least thrice now. And there it was, almost shouting at him from the quiet and sleepy gray of text. The Obituary Section. A huge picture of him at the last column on the right. His were unsmiling eyes, with heavy dark circles marking his sleep-deprived life. And below his picture were the words Ricky
The phone rang. It rattled his nerves. It had been eerily quiet. The phone rang twice. In the middle of the third ring, he picked it up. “Yes?” he croaked on the phone, sounding surprisingly breathless, as if he just went for a run. “Sir, your wife called, she asked if you could come to Haley’s game today,” Rita, his secretary said, very monotonously, as if she was bored to death. “What day is it today, Rita? Isn’t Haley’s game tomorrow?” “It’s June 27th sir. Haley’s game is today. You told me to take note,” was the equally bored answer. “Oh yes, Haley’s game today. Then I die tomorrow. Tell Miriam I’m sorry, I’ll be busy the whole day.” “Sir? You what tomorrow?” Then Ricky hung up.
