The night Sheila’s father died we went bowling. My ball spun counter-clockwise down slick lanes, lit and clean. As I reached 195, she pinched one phone between her shoulder and ear. She pecked her other phone like a chicken sorting pebbles and seed. Her drinks stacked up at the bar, and cocktail tissues lay crumpled.
Her father owned yachts. His dying wishes; to be buried at sea, and for Sheila to leave me.
Our love is broken, but Sheila needs me to attend the burial. It’s not a good time
for questions, but I have never been to a funeral. Do I buy her a corsage, wear a cumber bun, bring a dozen black carnations?
I have been on one of her Dad’s yachts once,
The Minimalist, and the thought brings an acidic taste to the back of my throat.
I board the boat with the other respect payers. Inside the hull the portholes bob
and weave. In the distance the shoreline is a piece of driftwood, half-submerged like
a crocodile. My lunch starts to separate from my stomach. I tell Sheila I’m not feeling well just as the urn is passed to her. She frowns at me through her veil.
She holds the trophy over her head, a first place prize in the race to easy street.
Her father’s money is now hers. I violently vomit onto the deck. I lumber to the railing
and pray this will all be over soon. My gush mixes with the ashes of her father.
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