I cross the street knowing that I’m heading to my own funeral. The thing is, I’m highly confident that today is not for the dead.
She is waiting, picking, chipping her nail polish. Polish, black, bad sign? Her hair is straight, she knows how much I like that. Red dress and high heels, big sunglasses. Enough makeup on to cover five faces. Yup, I’m fucked.
I nod, why, I have no clue.
“Lucy, I just want to-”
“Save it. Buy me a drink?”
She twirls a strand of hair between her fingers. Flirting. Death, funeral, six feet under. I’m trying.
“No, well, it’s just-”
“Come on Ty.”
The bartender is wiping down the bar when we sit down. She takes off her sunglasses and smiles at me. Death, funeral, six feet under. I’m trying.
“Two whiskeys, straight up.”
I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. She has me where she wants me. I’ve got to make a clean break.
“Lucy, we have to talk about something.”
“Can it wait a goddamn minute? I want to finish my drink.” She lightly touches my hand, lingering. I pull back. Death, funeral, six feet under. I’m trying.
The bar is quiet, eerily quiet. It’s 15 after 5. There’s a gentleman fingering the rim of a glass of wine in the corner like it’s his last drink. I feel ya, pal.
“So uh, Luce, about that talk.”
She bites her lip and pushes a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.
“What could be so important? It’s not like we’re breaking up, right?”
Death, funeral, six feet under. I down my whiskey.
“See the thing is Lucy, I love you very much b-”
“I love you too sweets. Let’s go, this bar is, well, rather dreary for talks about love, ya know?”
She fumbles for her purse and spins the barstool towards the door. Before I can get out another word she’s almost to the door. I pay for the drinks and chase after her, like usual.
“Luce, wait up!”
We’re outside of the bar and she’s trying to hail a cab. This isn’t good. Not at all.
“No, Ty, fuck you.”
I run my hands through my hair. I’m trying to decide if I should console her…
“Luce, don’t be this way. I just, I can’t, do this anymore.” Death, funeral, six feet under. I’m really trying.
She turns to me, tears running down her soft, blushed cheeks. She goes to say something but then stops, turns to the road, and runs out in the middle of the traffic.
You know what happens next.
Death, funeral, six feet under.