Peonies, Obviously
The van smelled of eucalyptus and betrayal.
“You’ve put your buckets on my side,” said Tom, in the tone of a man who had rehearsed it.
“There is no your side. There is a van, which the council has decided we are sharing, and there is the floor of the van, which is where buckets go.”
He moved one anyway. Then, because he is incapable of leaving a thing alone, he moved it back, half an inch closer than it had been before.
We did not speak between Ashford and the crematorium. At the crematorium he handed me the wrong wreath, and I handed it back, and our fingers overlapped on the wire frame for slightly longer than the handover required.
“Peonies,” he said. “For a funeral.”
“She liked peonies,” I said. “Some of us ask.”