By Charlotte Stobart
Ms. Peterson does it in the bathtub. Black shoe polish clumpy on tulle. (Not bad for a D.I.Y job.)
The dress is another matter. She’s thirty years older, sagging with the inexorable rot of age. The replacement is almost identical. (Next day delivery).
She isn’t invited to the funeral, so lingers in the back, like a sour stench.
No one acknowledges her efforts.
He passed while he slept; he didn’t suffer, they say. She scoffs into her polish-stained veil.
Later, she faces the stone marking the carcass of Mr. Peterson. Red-brown residue stains her nails. (Not bad for a D.I.Y job).
Someone has to do it! Thank you!