Jim and the Flims by Rudy Rucker

let this one slide. “It’s weird to be outside again,” I remarked, happy to be in the back seat next to her, our thighs touching, the two of us watching the world scroll by. “I was only in the hospital for those three days, but I feel like everything’s changed. I never really understood deep down that I myself am going to die. Not even after losing my wife, Val.”
    â€œDid you glimpse the afterworld?” asked Weena. “During your apoplectic attack?”
    â€œI didn’t see jack shit. There isn’t any afterworld.”
    â€œOh yes indeed there is,” said Weena, and I was glad to hear her contradict me. “I’ve lived there for many a year,” she continued. “You people still on Earth full-time—you’re less fanciful than we astral travelers.”
    Maybe Weena was saying she’d emerged from that slime-filled cellar that I’d seen under the green Victorian. Or maybe she was just being whimsical. Or maybe she was comparing men to women in some vaguely disparaging way. In any case, we’d reached my house. I noticed a small cardboard box on my porch.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked Weena, already guessing the answer.
    â€œSome meager possessions that I’ve acquired this week,” said Weena, in her curiously old-fashioned diction. “I don’t have a proper place to stay. And I have special interest in you. So I’ve formed the plan of rooming here. Can you pay the driver? I have but little cash—I took the bus to the hospital. But never fear, I’ll contribute to your rent next month. And I’ll bring home masses of free ice cream. When it’s a week old, they discard it.”
    The driver was mildly interested in all this—I could tell from the quiet, attentive way he was holding his head—although ostensibly he was gazing out through the windshield. Weena gave me a big grin—although, once again, her eyes seemed calculating and hard. Clearly this some kind of baroque scam, but she was putting on such a good front of being chirpy and sexy and quaint that I didn’t really mind. Anyway, it’s not like I had much to lose.
    â€œOkay, fine,” I said. “You can live with me for now, Weena. Welcome.”
    The cab drove off and we were on my porch, me and my pretend wife. Droog appeared, whining and jumping up on me. I hoped he’d been able to scavenge food from around the neighborhood. Dick and Diane Simly would never think of caring for a renter’s dog.
    Feeling a little dizzy, I filled Droog’s water dish and poured out some kibble from the bag I kept in a cupboard on the porch wall. He set to work slurping and crunching.
    â€œGood boy,” I said. “Meet Weena. Weena, meet Droog.”
    â€œHe and I became acquainted this morning,” said Weena. “He tolerates me.”
    â€œWhat kind of name is Weena, anyway,” I demanded, feeling suspicious again.
    â€œIt’s from my grandmother,” she said. “She hailed from the subcontinent, and her full name was Praweena. Unbar your door, please. I’m bursting.”
    â€œThe bathroom’s over there,” I said as we stepped inside. “But I still don’t get how you found me.”
    â€œI have secret channels,” said Weena, tossing her head. She pecked a little kiss onto my cheek. “I’ll return anon.”
    I sat on my couch, thinking things over. My house was calm and quiet, a shady shelter from the July sun. Would the house have noticed if I’d died? Did a house think? Would the Simlys have rented it out right away? What would have happened to my stuff? Would anyone have come to my funeral?
    â€œHere I am, little husband,” said Weena. She’d combed her hair and freshened up her lipstick. She was watching my every move.
    â€œI want you to understand that I’m not completely slushed,” I said sternly. “I’m happy if you live with