From what I've told you so far, you might have thought I had some intimacy with all of my clients, either pre- or postmortem. On the contrary. I have always respected their boundaries - for example I'd never play with the body of a married woman. And of course I have my own preferences, so a male client is out of the question as well. The sexy ones make for more interesting stories, however - don't you think? Most of the time they do. But there is something cute and touching about a certain type of client that is surprisingly frequent: couples. Sitting there on the couch with their glasses of cyanide wine, offering each other a drink; or laid out together after I've given them a bullet to the back of the neck, one by one; holding hands or snogging as I switch the electricity on, so it can flow through both loving hearts at once... I have always envied the trust and affection sparkling between them, a magnetic force that keeps me out of their private universe, a soft glow that doesn't fade even in death. I knew I'd die alone, as I lived: like a wedding organizer, watching from the sidelines, helping others to attain their version of happiness. Sometimes I still wonder what it would be like to be deserving of a partner, but it's no use wondering about impossible things.

That doesn't mean there are no temptations, however. But seeing such beauty is more satisfying than defiling it. It is without guilt. One day, two girls knocked on my door - barely legal, with braided hair and radiant smiles. One of them was a hot chocolate princess, the other a high-cheekboned, broad-shouldered beauty of Native blood. They cut their braids off and told me to make a rope out of them, long enough to sport a noose at both ends. I obliged, while they were cuddling. The thick, silky black rope of hair was then fastened to the hook in the ceiling, that I had fitted there for this very purpose. I procured a bench from the kitchen, long enough for both of them to stand on. They stepped up and fitted the nooses on their tender necks snugly.
"Why do you even need me for this? I mean, this way it could be done at home," I remarked.
The red one smiled. "We needed to be sure it works. Right, Tawny?"
"Yeah. And someone to fill out the paperwork," added her girlfriend.
I nodded. Part of the assisted-suicide practicioner's work is to fill out death certificates and ensure no one is meddling in people's personal business. At that point, I was just there to witness the beauty of two young women leaving their lives. I didn't rush them along, just let them enjoy the moment - they exchanged a kiss on the lips, and fondled one another's soft breasts. Then they slid off the bench, not even kicking it over. Suspended, with their necks stretched and constricted, they held onto each other. Even as the reflexive quivers started, their hands were locked together, and they stayed that way all throughout the process. The hair-noose tightened well, so they kicked a bit, but didn't struggle too long. Both of them managed to keep their eyes closed, but not their bladders. A thin rivulet ran down both pairs of flawless legs as the girls' lives finally were extinguished. Their swollen tongues looked like a promise of a kiss.

When I checked their heartbeats - and found none -, it came the time to lower them and lay them into boxes to be carried away by the coroner. I gently stripped them and folded their clothes into a pile that I'd later send back to their respective families. The melancholic joy of admiring their curvy forms, more perfect than any sculpture, still lingers with me. Two slack, yielding, lovely bodies... but they belonged to each other. So I only kissed their foreheads goodnight, as one might do with children. I put them into the same container so I didn't have to peel their entwined hands apart.