We had only a few days. To do what? Get the show together, get the routine down, finish the costumes, paint the sets, order the pretzels and orangeade.
We had only a few days to find a funeral home, write the obituary, invite the friends, order the flowers, decide what “she” in the casket would be wearing.
We had only a few days to book a flight, find the suitcase, find the money, decide the clothes, buy the toiletries, find a friend to drive or call Lyft at 4 in the morning.
We had only a few days to sleep together, walk together, eat together, be together, make love again and again, pack a suitcase, and one of us would go.
A few days.
We had only a few days to book the hall, buy the wine (Costco is good), gather plastic glasses (surely I have some), order some sandwiches, drain the bank account (again) and have the party that she demanded. Demanded.
And how does it turn out? It’s hard to tell because there’s nothing to judge “it” against. The show could probably have been better, the dance more synchronized. The girl in the second row—Heidi? Really? – should have been let go far earlier. No one knew the costumes didn’t have the ruffle they were supposed to. The sets looked fine, surprisingly. And no one ate the pretzels.
The funeral was good. Which makes no sense, given the givens. It was bound to happen though—no where else to go, everyone on good behavior.
The trip – scattered, but fun at the end. So: an eyebrow pencil had to be bought, the good pants left on the bed and not packed, but who knew? We made do.
The affair? That was pretty grim, tragic. Awful awful at parting. Not enough time. When will we see each other again? Wrenching. No easy remedy—no a dancer less, an eyebrow pencil more—just pain.
The party? She was pleased. The hell with it all though; I won’t do it again.
I apologized to everyone anyway. We had only a few days, I said. What did you expect?