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Mistress

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The wood in the small church was cheap and hollow, no doubt all the small gaggle of church goers could scrounge up going door to door. And as the last few members traveled in vain, knowingly, the once great church, was falling apart. The stain glass windows gave a false impression of reflective beauty but when observed at a closer angle were plastic and barred. The party had been small and sad, following a large wooden casket. The craftsmanship of the wooden casket stood royally against the tackiness of it’s surroundings.

Five people contained in the church stared blankly with eyes vacant at the box before them. As a large woman took the altar, the expressions did not change and the reverend had no doubt that they never would.

The tired faces remained emotionless for the remainder of the service and the wind whistled and leaked in through the fake pretty of the glass.

A woman dressed in a dark purple coat and black pleather shoes turned to the man closest to her.

“Was he a good man?” Her thick Russian accent gave her away as one of the many immigrants who had come to the town years before. The wrinkles on the skin pulled tautly across her face only enhanced the beauty of her face. And in the wrinkles, all the years of her life showed. Her frightened eyes resounded deeply within the man, as is to conquer, and stirred a feeling of confusion. The thing that disturbed him mostly though was that it did not seem as if she were asking for the information but for a petty reassurance that he was in fact a great man.

“To speak truthfully, I did not know this man too well. He was my primary teacher. But when I heard of his death....I did not want him to be alone. I knew he never married.

“No he did not”

the man noticed a tear in her eye. He looked at her oddly. She was the only woman in the church and with her he recalled a sense of responsibility and guilt in the languages of her flesh. And then he understood.

“It’s not your fault you know” The woman did not look at him.

“It never was”.



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