I almost choke on my spritzer.
“What’s wrong with his mustache?” Sheila asks, completely seriously, as if she didn’t check him in at the blood drive. At sixty-five, she’s the youngest of their trio. Her white hair is almost long enough to lay flat again after a round of chemo for breast cancer last fall, and she’s stronger every time I see her now that she’s also finished radiation.
“It’s the pinnacle of examples of why very few men should ever attempt a mustache,” Odette replies.
Evelyn hums in agreement.
“And he’s the pinnacle of examples of why men shouldn’t exist at all,” I mutter.
Which I don’t mean.
Mostly.
Odette sips her chardonnay and studies me like she knows exactly where my brain is, and probably also like she knows I don’t want to talk about it.
Evelyn starts to ask me to explain, but Odette taps her glass twice on the table. “Ignore him. Problem solved. And, unfortunately, we need to move on to business. I have an announcement. Steve died.”
I take a swig of my spritzer to keep the automaticI’m so sorryfrom slipping out of my mouth.
Even after two years of learning better with this group—they prefer facing death with irreverent humor—I still sometimes almost slip.
“Funeral home Steve?” Sheila asks.
“Mailman Steve?” Evelyn says at the same time.
“Drugstore Steve,” Odette replies. “Heart attack in the condom aisle. Donotquestion me, Evelyn. Thatiswhat happened, and ifyou don’t believe me, you can walk your little tush down there yourself and ask the pharmacist.”
“Oh, that’s a terrible way to go,” Sheila says. While I love all three of these women, Sheila is easily the kindest-hearted. She’s the one who’d leap in front of a bus to save a baby. The one who’d canvas a neighborhood looking for a missing cat. The one who’d kindly chide strangers on the internet who leave trollish comments on basically any post that’s ever existed on the internet.
“We’re going to need to see the security cameras,” Evelyn says dryly.
Odette smirks.
I know that smirk.
She has the security camera footage.
“Was he shopping for the condoms?” Evelyn asks. “Or restocking them?”
Odette shakes her head over her chardonnay. “He was showing a customer where they were located.”
Sheila gasps. “Imagine being that customer and thinking your sex life caused a man to die. They should get flowers too.”
Evelyn pats her hand. “I’m sure the pharmacy gave them a few good coupons for their trauma.” She looks back at Odette. “Was it someone he knew?”
Odette shakes her head. “No, and they didn’t even ask any strange questions. At least, not according to my sources.”
“Was he dating anyone?” Sheila asks. “Do we need to send her flowers?”
“Recently remarried,” Odette reports. “Sometime in the last year or so.”
“No,” Evelyn says. “Didn’t you call himGets Around Stevewhen you broke up with him?”
“Apparently he found some vag worthy of the shackles.”
“The poor woman.” Sheila plops her obituary notebook on the table. The cover is a soft blue fur, and it comes with a dangling penin the same color with a blue powder puff on top. “I hope she married him for his money. I can’t imagine heartbreak is any easier in your later years.”
“Well, she certainly didn’t marry him for the D,” Odette murmurs.
