It was the morning of the funeral. She had laid out her best black dress, sensible heels, and dark tights. All dug from the recesses of her closet, because she never wore black. Not for no reason, anyway.
I get the same responses from just about everyone when I tell them I went to school in San Diego:
“That’s so far! Did you miss your family?”
“That’s so far! Did you hate your family?”
“Why did you come back?”
Rick stubbed out his cigarette, the flaky ash making a dark hole in the makeshift foil ashtray. The glass of whiskey on the table was sweating, leaving a ring mark that Evie would have flipped her lid about in the past. Back when she cared about things like that.
People say hell is endless. They say it’s our worst nightmare, the face of our darkness. But whatever it is, however it is, I say hell is empty, and all the devils are here.