Page 3 of Love is Blind
It’s just as well.
Emmy likes to talk, and I don’t.
I lift the glass to my lips, about to down the entire thing, when I hear a female voice.
“I want an open bar and a DJ at my funeral.”
Turning my head slightly, I stare blankly at the girl sitting two stools down from me.
“Oh, and those mini hotdogs are a must.”
There is no one on either side of her leaving me to believe she’s either talking to herself or to me, and if it’s the latter—well, she’s got the wrong guy.
Maybe if I was in the market for a quick fuck, I’d reconsider. I’d move to the stool between us, buy her a drink or two—however many it takes. Then, I’d take her into the bathroom or maybe Sally’s office—cash in on the perks of being a silent partner in this fucking place—and fuck her until we both can’t see straight.
But I’ve got enough gash hanging off my dick that I don’t need to go through the pains of listening to this chick go on about her funeral.
I shake my head and knock back my drink in one gulp.
Hard pass, Goldilocks.
Hard fucking pass.
When you’ve watched a tiny white box the length of your forearm be lowered into the dirt, you hope to never attend another fucking funeral or wake as long as you live. And you sure as fuck don’t make conversation about it either.
I turn my head hoping to find Emmy making her way back over to me but she’s still working the other end of the bar. My eyes seem to have a mind of their own and take a detour, landing on the blonde once again.
Her long hair cascades in waves around her face shielding most of her profile from my view. She tucks some of those golden locks behind her ear and I watch her cheeks hollow as she awkwardly purses her full lips around the straw, sucking back some of her drink. I should look away—pay her no mind—but instead my gaze narrows and trails over her pretty features.
From this angle I can’t make out the color of her eyes, but she’s got long lashes and high cheekbones that appear naturally flushed and stand out against her smooth pale skin. A pert little nose, a delicately carved jaw, and a plush mouth—all part of the package.
Dainty.
Feminine.
Sexy as fuck in a subtle kind of way.
A real fucking looker.
“And while I’m at it, I don’t want people to wear black either,” the chatty blonde adds. I wait for her to give me her eyes, but she doesn’t. Lowering her glass, she continues to ramble on, “Life is meant to be lived in color.”
I consider that last sentence.
People only say that when life hasn’t kicked them in the ass. But life is pretty black and white. We start dying the day we’re born, and in the short time we’re here we shoulder more grief than joy. If I were a religious man, I’d tell you the color comes at the end. When our weary bodies are laid to rest and we’re reunited with the ones we’ve loved and lost.
But I ain’t that guy either.
Cutting my gaze back to my empty glass, I swirl the ice around.
“You’ll be dead, color won’t matter.”
“Maybe that’s what some people believe but when you’ve lived a life full of darkness, you want the celebration of that life to be vibrant as fuck.”
I hate that fucking term.
The priest said those same exact words at my daughter’s funeral and as soon as he did, I wanted to bury him alive.
It isn’t a celebration when a child dies, it’s a goddamn tragedy.
