He was dead at nineteen in the back of an old calamari bar, in a booth where the endurance of an old overhanging green-glass light was as questionable as the squid. He had never liked the thought squid, or any type of seafood for that matter, until one night when he passed by the bar and saw a girl inside that looked like God with pale blue mourning eyes and a small crooked nose and dark sun dried hair that placed half of her face in shadow. He went into the bar that night, sat in the booth with the dangerous light hanging overhead, and ordered a plate of calamari. There he watched her from afar, making sure that she was in fact, God, but not daring to touch his calamari, and being so awed by the knowledge of her existence, that he did not dare to talk to her. Everyday after that he craved calamari, and came into the bar welcoming the smell of the sea twice removed like cinnamon apple tea. And everyday he ordered a plate of calamari, but did not try a single bite. Until one night, when she came in again, at last. In a fit of excitement and relief he slid from his seat in the booth at the back of the bar and asked her to join him for a drink. She agreed and they went back to the spot where for so long he had waited for her. “You haven’t touched your squid,” she cooed, when last they were together. So happily he took a bite. Immediately his lips began to tingle, his heart began to race, and he became lightheaded. “Ecstasy!” he thought, but he was wrong. And there he died at nineteen in a calamari bar in the booth at the back of the restaurant with an enduring green light flickering overhead and God across the table.