February 21
The funeral is at Cason Cemetery on Mission Avenue, seventeen blocks away from the club. Phillip stands on my right side in a suit that makes him look like he’s a middle-aged fashion model. The day feels like a freezer: cold, icy, heavy moisture in the air. There are approximately forty gatherers at the funeral, most of whom are relatives. Bare cheeks turn a fiery red, teeth clatter, and hands shake because of the twenty-degree weather. Pastor Andy Harnell stands over the mahogany casket, reading from his Bible. No one at the gathering, except for Phillip, of course, knows that Andy and I had a fling. Some time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, when we were much younger, silly, and often drunk.
Phillip and I make an attractive couple together. Some probably think we’re lovers.
