Far From Escape

He heard someone pull the door of the coffin shop open and he wondered if whoever had walked in had also lost a wife or maybe a husband. They would look sad because either they cared about their partner or they were able to pretend to have cared about them. He looked at Stefflon.

"What color of coffin would you like to be buried in?"

Mirabel's pool-blue eyes dilated. "Excuse me?" she quickly lowered her glance to the floor. "I am sorry, I have never thought of such a thing before." She was grippingly confused.

Ken scoffed. It amused him how most people reacted to death or being in a coffin as if it was even possible to escape death. "I will take this one. She loved white…and gold."

"I think she'd prefer the blue over there." The voice came from behind him and it was very familiar. Who the hell is it?

He spun around and the sight of her left an instant bitterness in his tongue and a sharp pinch in her heart.

"Whitney ?"

It was her. Stefflon's best friend and his tormentor. The scent of her strong feminine perfume overpowered the smell of the coffin shop's scent. Her blackness and outwardness reflected the darkness of her heart. And her equally dark eyes that held a little glimmer of light covered by black shades. He had to bump into her at a coffin shop on a day like this. He could swear the universe was against him. It didn't find it fair at all.

"Ken," Whitney replied, tilting her head towards Mirabel, the shopkeeper who was still around. "We will let you know when we've decided."

We? He did not like the sound of that one bit. Not that very minute. Not that day. And perhaps, not anytime soon.

Mirabel nodded and started away, leaving only Ken and Whitney at the spot. "What are you doing here, Whitney and what do you mean by we?" He knew exactly what she meant, every part of him was protesting what she meant. He had to be sure that she meant what he suspected she meant.

"What do you think?" She removed her shades with one hand, folded them, and hung it on the neck of her plain black body-fitted gown. Her eyes were red, fairly swollen in a way no one but him would notice. She had been crying and there was no glimmer of light in her eyes at that moment—not even a ray.

"I am not thinking, Whitney ." He tried to ignore the sadness that lingered in her eyes. Her face couldn't conceal it either. "I do not wish to bicker with you today so you can go ahead to do whatever you want while I pick a coffin for my dead wife."

He wheeled away from her and pretended to be checking other coffins on the same row as the white and gold one. He liked the white-gold coffin. He'd have gone straight up if Whitney hadn't shown up.

"Your late wife?" Whitney let out a sarcastic laugh. "I can see that you look every bit of the grieving widower. Don't you?"

Her words stung his heart. His numbness had somehow vanished, leaving him to feel every bit of the vileness Whitney poured and was yet to pour on him. She had the power to do that with her vile tongue. She had always been that way. But he wasn't ready for her nagging—physically and emotionally.

"Do not start, Whitney," he said over his shoulder. "Not today. Please."

"Then do not pretend you do not know I am here to pick a coffin for my friend," she bloated, in a tone that seemed like she was trying to scare him.

She was unbelievable. Ken wheeled around and turned to her. "Stefflon cannot be buried in two coffins, Whitney. We both know that."

"She can't." Finally, something they could both agree on. "That is why I am here to get one for her myself."

He took his words back. A cow would have to pass through the eyes of a needle before he and Whitney could agree on the same thing.

"I believe you understand why you cannot be the person to pick Stefflon's coffin. I mean it's glaring enough not to be ignored."

Whitney neared him very firmly. The heel of her boots hammered against the floor as a warning to him. She raised one of her perfectly shaped brows. "Husbandman? Why can't I?"

It was not surprising that she would try to spite him at the slightest opportunity she could get. What was surprising was that she would despite her friend's death. "Because I am her husband."

"Was her husband," Whitney corrected with a raise of her voice. "Do you even care that she is dead?" Her eyes swelled with tears. "You annoying piece of shit. You must be relieved now, aren't you?"

"I am not…" He swallowed. It was no use trying to explain anything to her, not like it would change her hatred for him. It never worked. And for goodness's sake, he could not bring himself to understand her strong dislike for him. He gazed at her, her mascara had run down her face with the tears, and it smeared her brown skin. It made him feel bad. "We can choose the casket together. I think Stefflon would prefer that."

He handed her a kerchief from the pocket of his blue jean. She scowled at it and then took out one from her purse. "Don't think you and I will be friends because of this. I am only here because of Stefflon. Not you. It can never be you."

Ken gave her a soft inclining nod and returned his kerchief to his pocket. "Being friends with you is the last thing on my mind right now." Whitney was the direct opposite of Stefflon, fierce, bold, forgiving, and very non-easygoing.

"Good." She patted beneath her eyes and wore her shades. "Let's get one quickly and go our separate ways."