“I haven’t written anything yet. I don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“Just get up there and say his name, and then break down into tears and leave. People will think it’s the best thing ever.”
”…I literally may do that.”
“I can’t believe you even agreed to speak.”
“I can’t believe any of this.”
We stopped talking then, each picking a point in the room to stare at like two models in a live performance art piece. After some time I stood, smoothing out my khaki shorts. “I’m going home.”
“Me too.”
Each a hollow half of the whole, codependent trauma bond we had formed, Mitch and I would remain fused that way for the foreseeable future.
He walked me to my car, and hugged me tightly. “Drive safe.”
I drove home erratically, and sat down to write the eulogy.

Luciana, 37