I love funerals. I fell in love at a funeral. My cranky grandma died. My mom was blubbering and my sister nudged me to comfort my mom so I wrapped one arm around her as they threw dirt on the coffin and that’s when I saw him. Zing. Bang. Voila. I wanted him immediately. I left my mom and sister to deal with flinging roses and introduced myself. I asked his name.
“Mike Higgins.” He wiped a tear. He knew my grandma from the nursing home. He was a doctor and had grown fond of my obnoxious grandma.
He had a well-scrubbed and milk nourished appearance. His hair was thick and only a few lines creased around his eyes. He used to be a Mormon. He left the church after taking a graduate course in philosophy where he confronted, apparently for the first time, the ontological problem.
“I never thought of God as a problem before,” he remarked. “But there you go. Things you live with can become a problem.”
We went on a date a few days later. The day after I wrote my name and his last name over and over in my frayed pink journal. KATRINA HIGGINS. Then, MRS. MICHAEL HIGGINS. Then, DR. HIGGINS AND HIS WIFE. Two months later I moved into his townhouse. I hung pictures, changed the curtains, bought an eight-piece dinner service (I intended to entertain guests), and set my box of tampons next to his shaving cream. Bliss.
At the beginning of February, I licked his cheek, which was the indicator that I wanted sex but he pulled away, exhausted and seemingly unnerved, and patted my head.
“Not just now, Katty,” he said. “I did a fourteen-hour shift. Check in tomorrow.” And then he closed his eyes and slept.
The next day I called in sick to work and tracked him. He went to lunch at the Toucan Cantina and met a blonde woman with startling chiseled cheekbones. Through the window, I could see they ordered margaritas. On the rocks with salt. They laughed, touched hands and then hugged for more seconds than I could bear. He was cheating. The bastard. I was outraged. Who would do that to me?
On Valentine’s Day, I cooked salmon, asparagus, and roasted potatoes with rosemary. I lit candles and uncorked the wine bottle. He came home on time with a Victoria’s Secret bag. Inside was a red silk and lace negligee that skimmed the tops of my knees. I wore it for dinner. When he was tipsy and contented I announced I would get dessert.
I went to the kitchen and got the butcher knife I had sharpened earlier. I then strode, with no nervousness, into the dining room and stabbed him repeatedly. His face was frozen in shock and pain didn’t seem like it was registering.
“Who is she?” I demanded. “The blonde at the cantina. The one with the model’s cheekbones. Who are you fucking behind my back?”
Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “Sister…,” exhaled. It was his last breath. I felt so relieved. He hadn’t wronged me after all. My anger dissipated. Everything was right in the world again. I then took the butcher knife and stabbed myself in all the places that would do the least amount of damage. I studied his medical textbooks. I called the police and said a blonde intruder had attacked us and had declared herself to be the sister of my boyfriend. I then fainted.
When I awoke I was in a hospital bed and police were gazing down at me. They looked sympathetic, which was good because that meant my story was solid.
“I never thought of Mike as a problem before,” I told them. “But there you go. Things you live with can be a problem.”
I closed my eyes and began planning Mike’s funeral. I love funerals.