“God damn it Ryan,” Maggie protested, as he spun the car suddenly. They slammed to a halt inches before colliding with the car parked in the adjoining space. “Was that really necessary?” Ryan ignored his wife as he grabbed his keys and left the vehicle.

They strode quickly across the steaming pavement, as though barefoot on hot sand. At the door, Maggie paused to viciously beat the wrinkles from her black dress, while Ryan attempted the same with his curls. He wore his hair just long enough to arouse suspicions- a limbo length, caught somewhere between stock broker and hard rocker. Any other time, a recollection of his wink and explanation for this-“I don’t like to get pegged before I’ve had a chance to make my impression”-might have stirred a smile in Maggie. But she today she was in no mood for his quirks.

She took a deep breath before stepping out of the August heat and into the cold sobriety of the parlor. Their bodies were silhouettes of black against gold in the blue wash of the room, until Ryan pulled the door shut and sealed out the sunlight.

Before them, a hushed mob dressed in black ties and ruined eyeliner rampaged reverently through memories and condolences.

“She was such a little angel,” a nasal voice assured.

“Just a tiny little thing,” lamented another voice from the crowd, “and the accident was just awful.”

“She never had a chance.”

Every soul present seemed linked by an invisible current of shared experience, a singular mix of sympathy, tragedy, and social taboo. Maggie felt panicked by the tension in the room, and the unfamiliar expressions on the faces she knew so well.

“I had not expected to see everyone again so soon,” she confided.

“I had not expected to see an open casket,” was her husband’s response. Though appalled at his forwardness, Maggie was more shocked to find Ryan’s observation true, and she paused to link her arm in his. Her dread increased as she observed the unavoidable approach of Uncle Charlie.

“Well hey there, you two kids,” Uncle Charlie was a large, hairy man, who always spoke as though he were secretly suggesting a matter of supreme vulgarity. He lumbered towards them with inappropriate eagerness. “How’s the married life been treating you? Anything… ah, developed, yet?” His eyes lingered greedily on Maggie’s abdomen before winking at Ryan.

“It’s been pure wedded bliss, Charles,” Ryan saw fit to inform him, his voice and tone dangerously perceptible over the funeral din. “You ought to try it sometime.” Uncle Charlie snorted and clapped a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, as if to commend him for a dirty joke well done. Ryan set his jaw in prepared protest, but Maggie spoke first.

“If you’ll excuse us, Uncle Charlie, we can’t stay long and I’d like to speak to Anita.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Damn shame, isn’t it? They said the car took her little face clean off. I don’t know how they got it back on like that…” The young couple left him to wonder.

Outside the heat had continued to increase, so that it was almost intolerable by the time the funeral party moved to the gravesite. Once there, Maggie hung back and watched the proceedings over Ryan’s shoulder.

“To give you a better view of the dirt, for contemplation,” she whispered shortly, in answer to his questioning expression.

He used the vantage point instead to inspect the surrounding faces. Only the priest suffered in a way he could relate to, boiling slowly in layers of cloth as he hurried through memorized prayers. It seemed an eternity before the coffin finally inched underground, and Ryan stood stoically throughout. Maggie, on the other hand, whimpered several times, and mumbled inaudibly to his back.

“She’s in a better place now,” she repeated, as they marched through the grass towards the sanctuary of their air conditioned car. Ryan tightened his grip on her hand, already slipping with sweat.

“Are you sure?” His eyes stole sideways under humidified locks, to watch her absentmindedly toy with the cross she had insisted on wearing. “You’re still crying.”

Maggie’s hand dropped defiantly as she regained composure and turned to face him. She’d been waiting for this all day, the moment when Ryan’s rudeness would finally get the best of him, and she was ready to put him in his place.

“I cry because she’ll be missed,” Maggie began. “I’m crying for poor Anita and her husband. Can’t you feel anything for these people, Ryan? I know they’re not your cousins, but for Christ’s sake, they just lost their daughter, their baby.”

“They lost her,” he said slowly, “to the happy perfection of heaven. Weren’t you listening to that part? I thought you were; I thought I heard you say ‘Amen.’”

Maggie was furious, and she struggled to save her argument. “So you wouldn’t cry if you lost me? You’d be satisfied with my ascent, and just continue on your merry way?” She saw immediately that this struck him, somewhere deep. His eyes lowered, his shoulders drooped, and he reached out to her. Taking Maggie’s arms and pulling her towards him, Ryan forced her close to his face.

“Of course I’d cry,” he whispered. “Because I know, Maggie trust me, I know a perfect place without you does not exist.” The honesty of his gaze defeated her need to argue, and Maggie’s tears ran fresh with anguish.

They turned quietly and resumed walking. Neither acknowledged the bewildered looks of the mourners who had begun to pass them, alternately embarrassed by their emotion or insulted by their selfish seclusion.

Farther back in the cemetery, Uncle Charlie stopped to catch his breath. He mopped his forehead with a dirty handkerchief and watched as Ryan gently helped Maggie into their car.

“Ho-ho, young love,” he chuckled, imagining the raunchy scenes that might follow when the strong husband finally lured his timid wife home to bed. But he could never have pictured the two as they actually lay that night. Hiding their tears in the dark, Maggie and Ryan clung together fiercely, each desperate to believe they could somehow save the other.

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