This story should begin with a warning. But it doesn’t. It starts with us lying under the stars. You are talking about your father, and how your mother died. On the funeral, there is this woman and your father tells this sad story of how much he loved your mother. Five days later, the new woman lies in your mother’s bed.

You say, “Men look miserable and women want to fuck their sadness.”

There is a certain truth in the statement. It reminds me of a drunk bar, on a Wednesday night. It has a few similarities with a funeral. Men are drunk on sadness, giving eulogies to a forgotten past. Women in search for affection, sit by the dead. None of them really care about the dying.

“Funerals aren’t sad because of the dying. The living make it miserable.” You say.

Everything you say lacks emotion, yet feels like standing in an anarchist rally. You look like a rebellion. I want to tell you something, anything to take away the pain. I know I can’t, but I try.

“The world weighs against us.” I say and you burst out laughing.

“Nothing weighs against us. It’s our own futile hearts, blurring the tragedy. It’s all perspective. The things you find reality in, become reality.” You sigh.

We don’t meet each other for five months. By the sixth month, you die. At the funeral, I tell a woman about how lost we were. She caresses my arms, and gives me her number in case I need someone. Your father stands with the new woman. The dim lights in the bar flicker.
Nothing changes.

When the world departs, I sit by your grave for a while. I wonder if I could have saved you. I tell myself I couldn’t. For a moment, when I close my eyes, I feel us lying like before. I don’t open my eyes. I wonder what you would say right now.

“Don’t fuck the woman at my funeral.” Is the best I can come up with, but that’s not what you say. You don’t say anything. .

"Why don’t you fucking say something?" I scream looking at dim star.