crematory

She is on a train. A man is dead. She needs to be in Rensselaer by five to be home by half past to be dressed and ready by six. She will be late to Albany, and so will his duffel. He won’t be.

Better never than late. He won’t get to explain to a short, hot beau why he broke standing dinner plans, again. He isn’t going to wear concealer and long sleeves. He doesn’t have to phone home. Instead, that privilege will be soon bestowed upon one of Albany’s (Boston’s? Amtrak’s?) finest. Death is the superlative excuse, the most airtight alibi, truly, the greatest reward. What to do when you’re dead: nothing. Cradle and grave, there is the homogeny of someone cleaning up your messes while you lie and then lay idly by, and one day she will agreeably be you.

Until then, she can only pray for such contentment. Maybe somebody will notice? Just not him. For the love of God, not him.

The little hand is on the five.