“I hate funerals.”
I’m always amazed that you’re able to speak so eloquently while you’re putting on your face. You expertly coat your long, thick lashes with mascara like you were born to paint yourself pretty, poised and perfect as your sit perched at your vanity.
“I really do.” You’re clearly addressing me, though your gaze is focused solely on the mirror.”I hate wearing black, I hate the way that you’re expected to look all proper and done up, I hate the food that people feel the need to throw at you, like the cure for all of your sorrows and grief can be calculated and counted and made up for in calories- I hate the way these small towns are, how everyone knows everyone and everyone knows just how close you were to the person… I hate how they all say the same god damn, stereotypical bullshit…”
You pause for a second before you square your shoulders, suddenly impersonating I don’t even know who. “‘I’m so sorry for your loss, dear.'” You stick your lower lip out at yourself in the mirror. “‘If you need anything, you just let me know, hun.’ ‘Remember all of the good times your had together. He or she will never be forgotten.'”
You roll your eyes when you’re finished. You move on to your lips.
“Just how many funerals have you been to…?” I ask in a hedged tone. You snort disdainfully.
“The same number as everyone else…one too many,” you answer dryly before puckering your lips. You went with gloss, this time. A light shade of pastel pink. It looks nice. “So do me a favor.”
You turn in your seat to look at me. Your smoky eyes are so piercing when you do that, it’s almost unfair. How do you always do that? How do you steal the very air out of my lungs with just a look?
“Don’t die before me. I hate funerals, and I would be sure to hate yours, too. And I don’t want to live in this world knowing what it’s like to hate you.”
I’m speechless. I’m speechless, because you are staring at me with a passion that you usually reserve for your music or your art. I’m speechless, because you’ve managed to make me feel unworthy of your presence, yet again.
I’m speechless, because this, right here, right now, is the closest that you have ever come to saying that you love me.
But you pretend not to notice my complete and total shock. You spin in your seat, your attention once more all for the mirror, all contained within your vanity. Those smoky eyes examine themselves critically in the reflection, and they remain there as you proclaim yourself complete.
“Now be a doll, and hand me my shoes,” you say casually, without so much as looking up.
And I, as always, listen.