You: the man with off-center moustache who was wielding a fidget-spinner at my friend Elrod’s funeral.
Me: the woman in polka dots suffering from post-dental appointment mouth droop.
My red polka-dot dress was meant to be ironic. Elrod would have loved it. His family, not so much. When I arrived, his mother stagewhispered that I was a slut, a whore, a harpy. You winked at me as if to say, “Why can’t she make up her mind?” Then you sidled up to her and asked her if she’d seen the classic movie When Harry Met Sally. She had, judging by her expert reenactment of Meg Ryan’s deli orgasm scene.
I sat three rows behind you at the service. Five and a half times you turned to gaze at me. You sent me a paper airplane (presumably with your contact info), but Elrod’s five-year-old nephew snatched it out of the air and ate it, secret-agent style. I silently begged you to send another (aiming more to the left this time), but you must have been out of paper.
I knew you were a professional mourner by the exquisite timing of your breathy sighs, knowing chuckles, and octave-spanning wails. Plus Elrod’s mother kept boasting about the discount she negotiated with you. I wondered how you got into that type of gig. Certificate program? Natural ability? Outright nepotism? I’m intrigued by the rogue-ness of it all. I want to hear more about your path to professional mourning.
It was hot the way you clapped after each portion of the service while nodding at everybody so that they would hesitantly join in. It was masterful the way you crawled to the coffin on your hands and knees while simultaneously flicking your fidget spinner. And your tears! The family had to pause the service while they sucked them up with a wet vac. You’re a true professional, and that turns me on.
You and I might have hooked up at the reception but I was spotted shoveling caprese skewers into my matching polka-dot wide-mouth handbag so I could chow down without biting my lip after the dental anesthetic wore off. Elrod would have loved that. His family, not so much. I left before they could kick me out, or worse, demand that I give the caprese skewers back.
Let’s make up for our missed connection. Tell me what Elrod’s casket style was so I know it’s you.
Photo: Tiffany Pereira via Unsplash
Find Susan’s novels:
Sorry, Wrong Afterlife
The Climate Machine (The Athena Disasters, Book 1)
The Time Philosopher (The Athena Disasters, Book 2)
