Tuesday, 4 April 2017

The Chronicles Of A Middle-Aged Vampire- Part 20

I just started laughing, I couldn't help it! This man had brass!
"Is this a standard pick-up line at the undead-bar, Mr Stell?"

He flashed those devastating dimples at me again. "Yep!" his grin broadened. "Are you falling for it?"

"Hook, line and sinker!"

"Well, I'm falling for you, Ms Schultz."

My lips were suddenly dry, and I ran my tongue over them. "Jonathan..."

"Saturday night we will talk..."

"Saturday..." I giggled again, "We can bugaloo to "Stayin' Alive!" And there we were, laughing over Frank's grotesque corpse, and eyeing each other lustfully.

Not how I'd imagined my first day as a grieving widow. But then again, I hadn't imagine my first day as a vampire would be like this either.

I had never been one for horror movies, or the supernatural at all. I had always been practical, pragmatic and prosaic. Goodness! I suddenly realised I'd probably been quite a prissy little prig!

Jonathan and I walked back to the showroom, and I was acutely aware of the short distance separating our bodies - the heat of his shoulder inches from mine.

In the showroom I deliberately moved away from him, and walked over to a large silvery monstrosity that gaped open, showing lavishly ruched white satin lining. Awful.

I was peering intently down into those cushiony depths when Sheila and Maeve returned with the leather bound catalogue.

"I think this, Mom," my daughter pointed out a surprisingly tasteful casket in dark wood, "I think this would be nice."

I nodded my agreement and turned to Jonathan - Mr Stell. "When?" I asked, "When can my husband be laid to rest?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, Ms Schultz? At four?"

I nodded. "Yes, most of his family arrives tonight, and some of his nephews are flying in from Canada, I believe."

"We can have the eulogy first so the mourners can pay their respects, then move along to the funebral ceremony... Was Mr Valginsky Church of England or Catholic? Or...?" Mr Stell raised his eyebrows to indicate multi-cultural sensitivity to whatever obscure cult or religion Frank might have belonged to.

Of course, Frank had worshipped nothing and no-one. His only object of unswerving devotion in all the years I'd known him having been his prick.


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