From her bedroom a flare of conversation
through a just-opened door; cut-off laughter. Her reflection grimaced back at
her, picturing guilt; laughter was for post-burial, after whisky had begun to
flow.
Carefully she applied paler-than-customary
lipstick; a sleepless smudge of eye-shadow beneath her eyes. Brushed cheap
mascara to which she was allergic: that would
ensure she cried.
The flimsy black silk, insufficient for the frosty
temperature would set her shivering even as she imagined the heat at the core
of the crematorium furnace.
It would not do to abnegate grieving widow until
the evidence had been well and truly incinerated.
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