Six months of renovation finally, truly done. Just hours earlier the last workmen carried off their ladders, tarps and tools.
He carried his martini and a bowl of cashews into the living room and sank into the couch.
The doorbell rang.
He sighed. They forgot something, no doubt. He opened the front door.
It was the angel of death.
"Really?" the man said. "Your timing sucks."
"Sorry," said the angel. He looked at his watch. "I have two other stops this evening; I could come back in, say, two hours?"
"That would be lovely," the man replied.
Back on the couch he sipped the martini, thoughtfully chewed a cashew, and called his daughter: "The locks were replaced; can you come over tomorrow to pick up keys? I'll leave the door unlocked." He paused. "I won't be here, but look around. It looks great, and it will all be yours one day."
"Oh, dad," she laughed. "Not for a while, I hope."
They hung up.
Another sip of martini, another cashew. "Not for a while." It's all relative, he thought. Two hours is a very short time when it's all the time that's left.