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“I’m so embarrassed, that damned Death Lady has turned me into a hypochondriac,” says Sue.

It’s a Wednesday evening and Max is driving her somewhere. He’s planned a surprise and he’s gleeful about it. It’s not even her birthday. She’s fairly certain she knows which restaurant he has booked.

Sue’s illness turned out to be an ordinary virus. Her itchy rash was a red herring. It was an allergic reaction to a bath bomb given to her by her favorite daughter-in-law. She’s fully recovered now. Full of energy once again.

“You were quite ill,” says Max.

“Yes, but I wasn’t dying,” says Sue. “If I overreact like that again, slap me across the face.”

Max grimaces at the thought of slapping her across the face. “You didn’t overreact, darling.”

“Are we going to that new Japanese restaurant the kids were talking about?” asks Sue.

Max ignores her guesses.

“I’m not angry with the lady anymore,” he says. “I’m happy we’ve had some…chats.”

It’s not like they didn’t have their “affairs” in order. Of course they did. They have proper wills and powers of attorney and all that horrible stuff in case one of them should become incapacitated. They are pragmatic people who have both lost parents, but maybe they never really looked death square in its cruel implacable face before, because once they got started, they discovered a lot they had not discussed, from the macabre—“Any thoughts on an outfit for your corpse?”—to the mundane, such as the location of passwords, keys, and paperwork. They’ve written preferences for their funerals. Max wrote: Don’t care, won’t be there, your mother is in charge. But still, that’s something to show the boys if there are arguments.

Max says, “When you were sick, I was thinking, okay, if this is it, if the old bird’s prediction is right, what would I regret that we hadn’t done together?”

“The trip,” guesses Sue.

“Nah, not the trip. I’m looking forward to it, but I dunno, could it really be that much better than our trip around Tasmania?”

Sue thinks of the fjords of Norway and the lights of Paris.

“We- ell, ” she begins, but Max is on a roll.

He says, “I decided there’s only one thing I’d feel bad we hadn’t done.”

He is pulling into the parking lot of what seems to be a local community hall in a nearby suburb. Sue’s heart sinks the way it occasionally does when Max looks on with anticipatory delight as she opens a gift of clothing she knows won’t fit or suit her. She can see other couples of a similar vintage to them emerging from their cars and heading toward the open door. Surely he hasn’t got them joining some kind of community group.

“Salsa dancing!” he cries.

“Salsa dancing?”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’re all beginners! It’s an eight-week course. I remember how you were so keen to try it. You were always bringing it up and I was always shutting you down, and I thought if I lost you, I’d be kicking myself, thinking, Why didn’t I just say yes, why didn’t I take her dancing? ”

Sue can’t remember ever expressing an interest in salsa dancing, but over the years she has at various times tried to come up with creative ways to convince Max to exercise more. He likes dancing at weddings. He’s always first on the dance floor and comes home with the back of his shirt soaked in sweat. She probably thought the best way to convince him would be to pretend salsa dancing was her dearest wish, when in fact she’d really just like him to join a gym! Imagine if she’d died and the poor man had spent the rest of his life saying regretfully, If only I’d taken my darling wife salsa dancing. She gets the giggles, but of course she can’t tell him.

“I can’t dance in these shoes,” says Sue. “Not with my ankle.”

Max reaches into the back seat and grabs a bag. “Sneakers.”

“You think of everything,” she says, ruefully recalling the lunch she’d skipped in anticipation of the apparently amazing Japanese food she thought they were trying out tonight.

—

Of course, within five minutes of the first lesson Sue knows they are going to love salsa dancing like they love most things. They are Sue and Max O’Sullivan. They love life. We’re good at life, she thinks, as they grin at each other while they clap the rhythm of the salsa: clap-clap-clap-pause, clap-clap-clap-pause. Her charm bracelet jingles as she claps. Each charm is a symbol of something precious from her life: each son, each grandchild. There will be room for a tiny salsa dancer.

Their instructors are a gorgeous lithe swivel-hipped couple, and Sue can feel every sixty-plus person in that community hall, even the ones clearly dragged there by a more enthusiastic partner, falling in love with them. She already knows from the wry comments and jokes being shared that she and Max will have made friends for life by the time they’ve finished this course. More friends! “My parents make friends every time they leave the house,” one of their sons had said at a speech for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and the room erupted with laughter and love.

Max has got the rhythm already, and he’s having a go at the hip movement, even though they’re just meant to be clapping. It’s hilarious, and hopefully he’s burning a few calories, getting his heart rate up—this might even end up saving his life, you never know.

She repeats one word over and over in her head as she claps: Lucky-lucky-lucky-pause, lucky-lucky-lucky-pause.

—

Later that night, while they’re eating toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches for dinner in front of the television, Sue sees on Facebook that another passenger has received a diagnosis of a serious disease he does not specify, but which was correctly predicted by the Death Lady. However, he intends to prove the lady wrong and beat the disease and then send her a thank-you card. That’s the spirit.

She carefully puts down her phone, says nothing, and turns her attention to the television. She and Max laugh together at a rerun of Frasier. Niles is their favorite. He’s so funny. Max laughs so hard he has to wipe tears from his eyes.

No more fussing. She will simply cherish every moment she’s allocated until there are no more.