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2003-04-07
The Opening
Outside the funeral parlor, the afternoon air was unusually damp and sticky, even for August. Everything and anything smelled of either mould or piss, and the oppressive heat plastered even the tightest of curls against skin with a slimy, salty sweat. It would only grow warmer now. Plump and moist masses of clouds ominously piled atop one another, darkening the skies with a blanket of mistrust.
But they would break soon. They had too. It was much like watching a balloon engage itself with air until forced to burst, a sort of calculated tension that erupts with a frenzy. And so, from outside of the parlor, we watched and waited, most of us sweating from the tips of our fingers, for the rain to come.
The humidity was heavy and suffocating. I catch myself panting as we walk through the parking lot, wishing I could have something other than the warm bubbles of spit that sat on my tongue. I lick my cherry-glossed lips. Nothing. Maybe there would be something cool inside.
Two middle-aged women stand chatting near a ratty Oldsmobile, fanning themselves with their hands. The first, a graying brunette, stands in a pair of black two-inch pumps, occassionally shifting her weight about her swollen ankles. The second is an inch or so taller, a bleached blonde with enormous brown eyes--they're heavy and sagging, and make her look like some sort of sick dog. She continues to play with the golden cross necklace draped about her drooping chest, those brown eyes of hers darting around the parking lot as if searching for an escape route, a change to pull away from the brunette. You can hear her own heeled shoes slide across the cracked asphalt. Nervous.
Someone reaches for my hand, clenching it hard within their own wirey fingers. It's Adrienne, who doesn't really look as though she's dressed for a funeral at all. Her blue dress is a wrinkled and bulges out near the top because of the breasts she'd finally grown in the spring. The dress is too short--it rides up in the back and the wrinkles across the front are long and criss-crossing in patterns that are obvious in the streaky sunlight. She stands out amongst all the people standing outside the doors and waiting near their cars, and for a moment, I wish it were me instead.
A fat man waddles away from his parked car and starts to adjust the buckle along his wide belt. Beads of sweat are already piling up along the crown of his head, and his face is flushed. After smoothing the crease in his pants, he turns to spit on the hot asphalt. I move sideways so my sandals won't squish the frothy bubbles into the cracks of the ground. An old woman quickly stomps on it and moves away, into the front doors. I follow her black heels all the way up the steps until she disappears into the building.
posted at 12:38 p.m.
