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The small man stepped into the building, feeling the gentle, cool air drying his sweat from the heat of the day. His skin was pale, and his ashen hair was balding. He wore an everyday office suit; Washington Black, with a plain burgundy tie and a clean white shirt. He had evidently primped himself up for the occasion he had arrived for.
The man, Randall, had his face wiped of expression. His movements implied peace and impassiveness. Randall looked around the organized room until his eyes fell on the mortician bent over his desk, scribbling casually. The mortician was hefty, with rosy cheeks and pudgy hands, but his eyes had grown accustomed to looking on in sympathy – which was the exact affection he showed when he looked up. He smiled understandingly and motioned for Randall to sit in the folding chair facing him.
“Who is the deceased?” he asked, rifling through a paper or two. Randall shrugged. “My wife,”
The mortician paused, turning the pen over in his hands. “What’s her name?” he urged.
Randall shifted in his seat. “Odette… Macintosh,” As the mortician wrote these things down, Randall mumbled to himself, “…she is so beautiful. Everyone loved her. She is so young and beautiful.”
The mortician nodded. “I’m sure,” he said. Randall sat up straighter.
“She needs to have the best.” He started, “She deserves the best of everything you have. The cost doesn’t matter.”
The mortician nodded amiably. “Of course,” The mortician began questioning on important material.
Randall lowered his voice. “…She’s so young. She’s so beautiful. She deserves the best of everything you have.”

The mortician stood up and shook Randall’s hand, assuring him of the best funeral arrangements they could provide. “We’ll be by within the hour.”
The mortician walked Randall to the door. Randall was still expressionless, and ignored the blast of heat he felt as he pushed open the door. As he made his way to his sleek red Chevrolet Corvette, the paunchy mortician inquired from behind, “When did your wife die?”
Randall seemed to evade the question, but really he fell into a reflective silence. Only after opening the door to his car and putting one foot inside did he answer.
“Tomorrow,”