She wears a lavender dress, flame-colored hair in a pageboy. She looks so young, early thirties.
We gather like flies on shit, pretend to express sympathy. We love darkness, don shocked masks.
There’s something in this woman’s eyes. Distant. As if she lived in unreachable places. Did anyone love her? Speak that basic word?
The woman stares, mouth agape. She’s waiting. As if she wants peace from the whirl of doom.
“I love you,” I whisper.
I whisper it again, as masks of sympathy fall, coroners and cops carrying her away.