The Service

Because I knew her a little better than most. Not because of some great insight into what makes a person tic. You know the way some people can look at a person doing a normal thing, like stirring a pot of stew, brushing a dog's wet fur, wringing a table cloth dry. They can look and see and discern who a person is. I am not one of those few. I do get there, I am able to get to that enlightened place, it takes time. I need to observe for weeks. Normally. 

 

She was slim in black. When she wore her uniform, the bright yellow t-shirt of a fast-food chain her belly seemed to stick out. She was young and sexy, her lips were permanently held in a sharp smile. Her breasts were large but not overly so, her eyes were neither true green or actual hazel. Her hips were tight making her bum seem bigger than it was, in jeans her rear could stop traffic. I masturbated about her regularly- which meant I did not love her. 

 

She looked adorable in a black dress. She looked tamed, easier to manage. Her brown hair was fashioned high on her head. Her normally Irish skin became Latin. Her feet that wore only worn converse trainers now slipped into high-heels, black and shinny like latex. She was still Darina, but she wasn't Darina.

 

A funeral home is a very odd place to get an erection. It was not the first time It happened. Years back, when an uncle passed on, I was twelve. I had not yet cleared the pipes, I was running hot. Every ankle, every partial slit of cleavage, the bottoms of all types and ages of women, make-up, the hugging. I produced a stoic erection. I had to feign a fit of tears and ran to a washroom, a hymn sheet placed over my groin. As an adult such things should  be controlled. Maybe subconsciously Its linked to my first bonner. The first is hard to forget. I got one as Darina got up to read from psalms. I tried to look away but it seemed inappropriate, like I was bored of her voice. When I came I let a quiet breath out and raised my hand to my brow trying to hide my rolling eyes. I was the last one to get up and join the other alumni toasting the professor. 

 

I attend funerals. I am the head of the family, we are old folks home people. My cousin in Trim owns a nice little home. He says its profitable, he says the old dears are grand. My home is a nice earner. It pays for itself mostly. The residents are a terrible mix of senility and old world wisdom. I keep them happy I think. Last year I had to sack an employee. He started to fuck one of the residents. He said it was a genuine relationship. He said they loved each other. I felt bad for the guy, I think he did love her. She called him Henry, it was his name, but it was also her dead husbands name. The old dear cried when I told her that her husband was dead, every morning until I decided to lie to her. Id say he running late, that he was doing his best to get to her. Sometimes i'd see her checking her old gold watch and strain to look down toward the wrought iron gates. She was waiting for him, it made me sad. Well I attend funerals as part of my job. I decided to take measures. I tried not to get excited, but I soon stopped trying to fight it. I developed tactics. I carried a sheet of hymns. I wore long jackets. It was only after I attended Prof Henley's service that I started to take measures.

 

A trusty hymn sheet. There were no songs sang for Prof Henley. My guess is, a cleaning lady missed the sheet as she cleaned away the traces of the Gattuso family. I walked with the sheet in my left hand shaking hands with the right. It was working, the patch was nearly tried away. I was a lucky man, if I could just make it to the washroom. 

 

Arms warm and slender and smooth. Perfume, delicate and sweet. I could feel her breasts against my chest. Darina let me turn blind into her hug. She knew me, we knew each other , it was okay. I lost the sheet and hugged her back, careful not to be seen either smelling her hair or smiling too much. We arched our back and faced one another like sparring snakes. She rubbed my arm and broke away, tears welling in her eyes. I rubbed her back. 

 

It was a child's laugh that turned the crowd. The boy pointed at the hymn sheet stuck to my crotch. Darina looked down, she looked at the corresponding blot on her Gucci. The blood from my penis went straight to my face. She knew, fuck everyone knew. It was my reaction. I could have passed it off as food- as a sause, a dripping sandwich. I did nothing. I turned red and moist. I turned to the buffet table and scanned for something, I don't know what for. I left a few minuets later. 

 

A year after the service for Prof Henley I bumped into Darina Henley. She looked flustered. Her eyes scanned the foreground and the car park. I tried to look normal, I looked normal. I joked about the poor construction of funeral home sandwiches. She laughed nervously and told me about a boy she seen hers ago. How he ran out of a service for his uncle because he got wood. She laughed and grabbed my arm. I laughed and cried and held a carton of milk in front of my groin.