Just as I walked down the stairs in my new black heels and silky black stockings (was it sinful to feel this sexy dressed for my husband's funeral?) my daughter arrived and let herself in.
Behind her snivelled my hateful younger sister, Rosa- the TRUE widow, if I were to be 100% honest. She had been the one sharing his bed and his life for the past dozen years and more, whereas I had been a glorified housekeeper and child-minder. The very best kind too, one that worked for free!
She looked dreadful. Her pretty, vapid face was pinched, her doll eyes swollen and red, and her blond locks lusterless. Grief was really devastating...I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror behind her and could not bite back a smile.
The sober black slip dress flattered my admittedly full figure, and suited my pale complexion and dark hair. A rich burgundy colour (all natural and with no aid from Maybelline!) tinted my full lips. Oh I looked really good! My eyes sparkled, my breasts enhanced by the push-up bra Sheila had selected for me placed my wounded heart on alluring display.
I took a deep breath, and the woman in the mirror parted her lips seductively, even as those perky breasts heaved invitingly. I liked this, I like me...
"Mom?" Sheila stepped forward to embrace me. "Poor mom...You look devastated..." She paused when she realised I didn't. I looked fabulous, but she had expected me to look a mess. She hesitated then extended a bag from an expensive accessory shop.
I opened it. Inside was a delicious black velvet and lace-veiled fascinator, and large black rimmed sunglasses presumably to disguise my tear-stained and grief-ravaged visage.
I stepped past Rosa's lamentably dripping red nose and placed the fascinator on my head at a decidedly alluring angle. The thin dark veil added a mysterious glamour to my glowing face.
I didn't look like a widow at all. I looked 10 years younger, like a woman tricked out for seduction.
Widowhood had revitalised and rejuvenated me. As had my newly awakened libido.
As we walked out the door to go to my late and unlamented husband's funereal rites, I couldn't help but rejoice in the sway of my hips, and gloat over imagined glitter of lust in a certain Funeral Director's dark eyes...
MC
Behind her snivelled my hateful younger sister, Rosa- the TRUE widow, if I were to be 100% honest. She had been the one sharing his bed and his life for the past dozen years and more, whereas I had been a glorified housekeeper and child-minder. The very best kind too, one that worked for free!
She looked dreadful. Her pretty, vapid face was pinched, her doll eyes swollen and red, and her blond locks lusterless. Grief was really devastating...I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror behind her and could not bite back a smile.
The sober black slip dress flattered my admittedly full figure, and suited my pale complexion and dark hair. A rich burgundy colour (all natural and with no aid from Maybelline!) tinted my full lips. Oh I looked really good! My eyes sparkled, my breasts enhanced by the push-up bra Sheila had selected for me placed my wounded heart on alluring display.
I took a deep breath, and the woman in the mirror parted her lips seductively, even as those perky breasts heaved invitingly. I liked this, I like me...
"Mom?" Sheila stepped forward to embrace me. "Poor mom...You look devastated..." She paused when she realised I didn't. I looked fabulous, but she had expected me to look a mess. She hesitated then extended a bag from an expensive accessory shop.
I opened it. Inside was a delicious black velvet and lace-veiled fascinator, and large black rimmed sunglasses presumably to disguise my tear-stained and grief-ravaged visage.
I stepped past Rosa's lamentably dripping red nose and placed the fascinator on my head at a decidedly alluring angle. The thin dark veil added a mysterious glamour to my glowing face.
I didn't look like a widow at all. I looked 10 years younger, like a woman tricked out for seduction.
Widowhood had revitalised and rejuvenated me. As had my newly awakened libido.
As we walked out the door to go to my late and unlamented husband's funereal rites, I couldn't help but rejoice in the sway of my hips, and gloat over imagined glitter of lust in a certain Funeral Director's dark eyes...
MC
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