He stood close to the mortuary exit. He thought she might change her mind. Mourning doves called, cooing in short and long bursts of flutelike music, cooling the dry warmth of the afternoon. She arrived carrying a vase, then dumped water into a hedge and tossed the flowers into a trash bin. The bouquet was large, composed of scentless yellow roses, blue irises, and red tulips. They were filled with sorrow dripping from broken stems, the way that funeral arrangements are. He imagined his longing for her upended like the discarded green spikes.
Published by Monica McHenney
Writing fiction since 2015 with three fiction projects in progress. A novel about three generations of a San Francisco family and two books of linked short stories. One explores the story of a PhD candidate who is on the autistic spectrum, the other is a trauma narrative modeled on Taming of the Shrew. View all posts by Monica McHenney