Mary and I are lying on a wide platform on a beach, in front of a building or restaurant. We are making love and are entwined in each others' arms. Mary looks beautiful, as she had when she was young and long before she took ill. But I know she is going to die. She is so nice to me. She is saying such wonderful things about me, and building me up emotionally, as only Mary can do. I begin to cry. I tell her how wonderful she is and how terribly I'll miss her when she dies. I am not sure whether I use the word "die," but my message is clear enough -- that I will miss her after she's gone.