It was a beautiful ceremony and reception, they'd say, if they weren't too busy actually thinking about tomorrow's plans, or the latest sports event, or their kid's latest, greatest accomplishment (high marks in school, their knack for art or reading, whatever; not being dead, for one thing, I'm sure). Lisa smirked when she thought that, then immedietely reprimanded herself mentally and straightened her expression back to nuetral and hospitable. Standing, trapped in a circle of relatives that squawked like crows over a carcass, holding a glass of water in one hand and in the other, a piece of toffee cake.
Directly across from her was a woman in a frilly yet plain sundress who wore a smile like a wrinkled, favourite mask. Her age showed, despite her best efforts, peaking out from behind the creams and foundation, showing in gray mockery under the blonde dye, and no woman takes too well to gravity, as they who are too polite to use words like 'sagging' say. She was the sister of Lisa's sister's husband, but nobody cares enough to keep track of those long titles, so Lisa always thought of her as Blondie. Lisa smiled faintly, then lifted the glass of water to her lips.
Her companion, whom Lisa had named Blackie, was as horrifyingly aged as Blondie (as Lisa was sure that it was quite a horrifying experience, to them — growing old). Her gray hairs laughed beneath, appropriately, the crow-coloured camoflauge, and a few strands of silver were visible running through from after the last time it had been applied, undoubtedly, by some overpriced stylist in an uptown salon. Lisa shifted her weight, and chuckled politely and pathetically at something that the others around her were guffawing and crowing about. Who laughs at a viewing: of a dead family member?
Their balding husbands stood at their sides, like dogs with high, "intellectual" foreheads, as they are fond of calling a receding hairline. A thought passed through Lisa's mind, and she wondered, briefly, where the playing cards were being hid, but she never did really like that gaudy painting. Their moustaches were well-groomed, in a strangely identical fashion, one jet black and the other a mousy brown, sitting above their mouths like a . . . Like a broom . . . For sweeping crumbs . . . Lisa paused and tried to put her finger on what it was, exactly, about funerals that made metaphors and similes seem so appropriate for everything.
Emily Dickinson, she decided.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the caterers return to the linen-covered table and refresh the finger foods. Crackers, cheeses, and chips, for the most part, with a few meats and a couple pretentious, trendy hors d'oeuvres that either Blondie or Blackie had suggested. In her opinion, Lisa had never understood what was so high-class about nibbling frog's legs, fish eggs, or liver. An image of a salmon in a top hat and tails popped into Lisa's mind, and she pushed it away, to the side, where the debris of her imagination could wait.
Sniffing, Lisa wrinkled her nose at the pungent, wood-chip fragance of the Dyejob Duo, and sighed. My mind is wandering, Lisa knew, and it's just because I'm not trying to think of anything, at all, right now . . . Makes sense, I suppose.
I could focus on the reality of things, the brunt truth of the world, but who wants to do that? Yes, my nephew was killed, and nobody cares but me and the Nameless Girlfriend (possibly), while everyone else is breathing a sigh of relief because the smear on the social face of the family has been rubbed away. I could brood over having to see people I haven't associated with for years and years, because they disgust me in ways I can't describe with words, and I could get depressed because there's more concern for the year of the wine being served than the reason why Marcus is dead and gone.
But, yeah, who needs those kinds of thoughts?
Taking a bite of the toffee cake, Lisa chewed on it along with her thoughts and did her best to seem interested in the conversational topic at hand. So, apparently, a new restaurant opened that serves French food, and that's great -- because we need more seventy-dollar platters that consist of more garnishings than edible portions. I guess parsley is technically edible, though, but it doesn't taste good, I hear; never had the urge to eat any of it . . . Lisa smiled, and nodded her head in response to the question that had just been asked of her (whether or not she agreed that the French military was weak). One of the husbands started cracking racist, French jokes, using an outrageous, exaggerated accent . . . Oh, how coy.
Lisa let her attention depart from the insubstantial banter of buzing wasps, and looked at her son. She admired his respect for the whole ordeal -- showing more than all the adults -- and how he was standing so angelically. She was slightly worried that he had been, as of late, all too quiet and self-contained, but it was a better reaction to loss and death than it . . . Well, could be. Better silence and, assumedly, contemplation than wailing and whining, or pretending like it never happened. She watched as he sat down in a chair, and drooped his head.
Poor thing, must be sleepy, and Lisa sympathised. Her eyes were feeling itchy, and her head woozy. She had hardly slept more than two hours in the past three days, and was dead on her feet, in all honesty -- but, it was only noticable, somewhat, upon close inspection. The bags under her eyes were mere shadows, and the red veins cracked through the whites of her loodshot eyes, but that was about all one would find to indicate the sleep deprivation she was experiencing. They say you start to lose your mind, noted Lisa quietly, if you don't get enough sleep.
I wonder if Eliza had been sleeping.
Blondie grabbed her husband-puppy's arm, and started pulling him over to the banquet table. In the far reaches of her mind, Lisa actually had heard her say she wanted to try the fish-heads or pig's feet or whatever "quaint cuisine" was being offered. Blackie let loose with a shrill giggle, which cut directly through the equator of Lisa's brain. Lisa just bit her lower lip, and then smiled widely, mentioning the menu that she had prepared.
She recommended the toffee cake.