A few hours a week—that's all! With her shoulders hunched, arms close to her sides, cigarette in hand—shaking her breasts and wiggling her ass, feet sliding effortlessly—her eyes narrowed and lips pursed, head thrown back in ecstasy, she remained young, beautiful, and pure. I was preparing for a move and was in the process of gleaning the essentials from my belongings. I stood, felt the brick wall at my back, and slumped against it, sliding down to sit on the cold pavement. I said my goodbye's in my own way, left the coffin, and headed outside. After a few bars, the bass and drums crashed in without warning, like fate does in life. Ten weeks had passed since she died. I smiled to myself—perhaps Descartes was wrong:
My Faith had been cruelly stolen, and in return, I had little faith to give. I'd made a spectacle of myself, but I was too stunned to care or feel shame. You fucking, selfish prick! Finally, I said, "Thanks, Gavin. However, the one thing she clung to while suffering the ravages of disease was her capacity to love. Her howls—echoing throughout the church, drowning out the service—were those of a trapped, wounded animal pleading for an end to the pain. Finally, Mick belted out his plea, "Please, someone, anyone, give me shelter from the mad incomprehensible world. Keith's guitar was ominous and foreboding. Thankfully, the green scarf that I'd bought for her wasn't part of the ensemble. A few hours a week—that's all! In her brief time here, Vera loved and was loved, and I was thankful to be part of that sphere. What would it have cost you? He'd flinched in the face of death upon realising that it looked nothing like a Hollywood actress. I pictured her as a child, fit and robust, capable of all the joys of movement restricted to the young and healthy, and how, with time, her body fell apart. The phone rang while Blonde On Blonde twirled on the turntable, with Dylan in the middle of nasal proclamations about guilty undertakers, weeping mothers, and fast asleep saviours. A little fucking late, I'd say. Every one of her cries ripped through the church and stabbed at my heart. We love; therefore, we are. Finally I started to cry without contrivance or regard for what others thought. What the fuck are you doing here? I thought you might like them back. That was when I saw him, and my blood boiled instantly. The cold, fresh air was a relief. Why are you crying? I stood, felt the brick wall at my back, and slumped against it, sliding down to sit on the cold pavement. Her spirit had vanished.
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