“Why are you here,” I asked in an accusatory tone.
“I loved him,” she moaned, extending a finger toward the coffin. She had dirt under her fingernail. “We were going to marry next August.”
“See that brunette in front? That’s his wife. So, why are you here?” I was calm.
“I don’t know.” Her eyes were red. She grabbed the lapels of her miniskirtsuit and pulled them tightly to her chest. “Do I have to leave?”
“Well, no. But you’ve been at every funeral for the past month. So I’m curious.” The authority with which I spoke prevented her from realizing that I was guilty of the same.
“I just prefer the dead.” She glared at me.
I was overcome with passion.
“So do I,” I gasped, grasping her hand. It was like ice. She recoiled but I refused to let go. “It’s okay. I understand.” She was obviously dead and found comfort in those like her. I, however, was just a deviant with a fetish for dead bodies. “Give me a chance,” I implored. “I won’t let you down.”
I took the flower she had tucked behind her ear (symbolizing life, perhaps) and sank its stem into my neck.