Somehow, though our conversation hadn't been morbid, the topic turned to the disposal of bodies and gravestones and all that. k. explained to me that she doesn't want anything particularly flashy to mark her death, whenever it may happen - that she wants it kept simple. She envisaged a memorial service that took some of her ashes out to sea and sprinkled them there, with the rest brought back to shore and buried under a eucalypt, reflecting her love of the ocean and the land.
"And behind the eucalypt, some kind of massive memorial. You know, like a skyscraper."
After a few more drinks I told k. about a slightly odd dream I'd had. I only told her to pass the time, to fill a conversational void if you see what I mean. I'm not telling you the deets because (a) it would bore you to tears, and (b) it would give too much away. She told me what she thought it meant.
"You reckon?" I asked, when she'd wound up her explanation.
"Yeah. Well, why not? I mean, I can't be absolutely sure; I wasn't there. And thank God for that - your dreams are maldicion weird."