Caught in the Act of Mourning
by Teddy S Bower
© Teddy S Bower 2013-2019 All righst reserved
I'd had to have been blind not to notice him as I entered the church, dressed appropriately for the somber occasion in my best, if conservative, black suit.
He was young, petite, adorable, smartly dressed in an expensive, tailored suit that did little to hide his perfectly proportioned body and lovely bubble butt. His hair was a shiny black. His eye were a striking blue. Designer stubble, an animated affectation and infectious, dimpled smile radiating from mischievous, twinkling eyes completed the perfect ensemble that left him, in my estimation, ultimately desirable and completely beyond my reach.
'He works for the mortuary,' I decided, while I waited to sign the book of condolences near where he was greeting mourners.
He handed me the memorial program and I extended my hand to shake his; not something I would normally have done, considering the occasion. I wondered why I had done it, but he reciprocated the gesture, turning the full wattage of that captivating grin on me as he did. Our eyes locked, and our contact continued a moment longer than seemed strictly necessary. I swear a charge pass between us that left me questioning what, exactly, had just occurred.
While I was an admittedly fit, fifty-one years of age, he was only what? Twenty-five? Less? Nothing to see here. Shrugging it off, I moved into the sanctuary, chose a spot on the center aisle near the back, and sat.
The funeral service started, and while it was not my intention to stare, I did. It seemed impossible not to. He caught me more than once.
The first time he tilted his head and held my eye for a moment before looking away.
The next time he smiled, shifted his gaze, and looked back. This time it was I who averted my eyes.
Our interactions, while not flirtatious loomed larger than life, an intangible "thing" taking place between us that I found difficult to ignore.
When the service ended, and he with his ancient, cadaverous looking coworker dismissed the mourners row by row, our eyes met for a final time. He studied me impassively for a few seconds before breaking into his patent grin. This time, adding an intentional wicked twist, he winked. Winked! I was so busted! I blushed, momentarily ashamed.
Refusing to indulge in self recriminations, however, I rejected those thoughts, returned his smile while rolling my eyes, and shrugging in deprecation as if to say, "Okay, so you caught me!"
Immediately his smile broadened, his dimples deepened, and his twinkling blue eyes fairly danced. With mischievous intent he lifted his his hand, pointed at me, and winked again. Clasping my hands to my heart I feigned being shot. We grinned. The moment passed, he dismissed my row, and I exited the church.
Later, in my bedroom, I removed my suit and, as was my habit, began emptying the pockets before returning it to my closet. Standing there, clad only in my red and white, designer briefs, I inserted a hand into the right side inner pocket and felt a business card. Withdrawing it I read:
Bransome, Petit, & Rose, Funeral Directors
Newport, Oregon
Rhonan Rose, Associate Director
Phone: 555-357-1634
email: rhonan@bransomepetitrose.com
Puzzled, I turned it over. On the back in a neat, hand-written script were the words:
Text me ~ 555-730-1532 ~ Rhonan ;-)
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