He had told me I was something special — that I was "unique" and "different." I was insulted. I told him I neither wanted to be unique nor different.

"What do you want to be, then?" he asked me.

"Nothing."

He shook his head and laughed. He told me he didn't get me. I told him he didn't need to get me. As long as I got me, that was all that mattered. He asked me what it was that I "got." I shrugged. I told him I didn't know. I just knew how I liked to live my life.

"And how is that?" he asked with a smirk on his face.

I smiled.

"On the edge."

He laughed. He thought I was being funny. He told me he had never seen me be daring a day in my life. I told him that's not what I meant.

"What do you mean then?" he asked.

"Literally."

I told him how I liked to walk in the middle of the street at night. How I lived for the thrill of the idea of suddenly seeing car headlights flash before my eyes and not being able to move in time. I told him how I liked to walk on the edge of the sidewalk, hoping that I'd take one wrong step and a car would fly by, taking my leg with it. I talked about how sometimes when I was driving, I daydreamed of cranking up the music, closing my eyes and crashing my car into a brick wall.

I told him how whenever I took a bath, I liked to test myself and see how long I could hold my breath for. On quieter days, I thought about closing the garage door and turning on the car, only to go upstairs and lay in my bed as I slowly inhaled the carbon monoxide so I could pass peacefully. Sometimes when I took Tylenol, I'd take one or two more than suggested to test my luck.

I talked about how enticing balconies were. The thought that the only thing separating me from certain death was only one step was terribly exciting. Or my love for glass floors — it was somehow comforting to know that my death was just beneath my feet and that a piece of glass was the only thing protecting me from it. I told him how every time I went hiking, I would reach the top of a cliff and stand there with my arms stretched out and eyes closed, feeling the wind against my face and almost feeling like I was about to fall.

I told him how most people found cigarettes repulsive, but for me they were bittersweet. I hated the taste, but the thought that I had the power of literally holding death between my fingers was empowering. I talked of how I loved to ride my bike barefoot without a helmet. Even if the risk of dying was pretty low, I managed to make it a little higher. I explained how I'd walk across the train tracks, even when the lights were flashing. I'd linger for as long as could, but only when the train was just a few hundred feet from my face was when I'd jump away.

I told of how I loved climbing bridges. I'd dance on the scaffolding and climb up the ropes until I reached the top. I'd stand on the edge and look out over the water, knowing that all it would take is just one jump. I told him how enchanting "do not enter" and "wrong way" signs were on the road. It'd be so easy to just ignore the sign and meet my crash right into death. I mentioned how I loved concerts — but for all the wrong reasons. I didn't care about the people or the music. I just went to immerse myself in the mosh pit. I loved the claustrophobic aura that made me feel like I was choking and couldn't breathe. I could lean over to tie my shoe and get trampled within a second flat, and the music would be so loud that no one would be the wiser.

I expected him to have a look of horror on his face. Or that when I looked up, he'd be long gone. I was surprised he wasn't on the phone with 9-1-1 to commit me into a mental institution. But he did none of that. Instead, he remained quiet as he pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and popped open his lighter. I watched as he inhaled, taking a puff as he moved the cigarette away from his mouth. He smiled.

"You're such a tease."

"Excuse me?"

He laughed.

"Baby, you're flirting with Death."

Disclaimer:This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.