An Archenemy in a Coffin Shop

There were things worse than standing in front of a coffin shop trying to pick the perfect coffin for Stefflon.

One of those things was having been married to her. Being a widower because of her.

Maybe it was all wrong at the beginning or maybe it went wrong along the line but it was of no use trying to remember and recount how wrong their marriage had been. He couldn't readily get his head wrapped round it but he sure knew that they at some point, stepped out of line—he couldn't deny the fact that they had long fallen out; of love, of patience and perhaps, of everything a husband and a wife should share. Who was he to tell it to? His parents? It was a bad idea altogether. Her friend? She hated him more than the devil. A start dilemma was what he felt.

How messy it got. Stefflon was dead. And, living people were not allowed to speak negatively about the dead. Who the hell made that bullshit up?

It did not matter if they were your lifelong enemies disguised as a husband or wife or their agelong friends. It might have as well been a killer or anything, the moment a person died, their wrongs were automatically wiped away. They become churchgoers who would call blameless saints—without blemish.

It was incredibly funny, truly it was, how many people were crowned saints because they died. It was even funnier that the ones who lived ended up being frowned at if they dared to speak ill of the dead. Being alive made them unworthy to comment unruly of the dead, who are purportedly unblemished and blameless.

Aren't humans weirdly sentimental with even the lowliest things?

Ken circled his finger with the gold wedding ring on it noting the mark it left on his finger. Three years was enough to leave a ring imprint on it. Three years was enough to scar his heart. It was the gold wedding ring he had exchanged with Stefflon the day they said their vows to each other at the altar. Vows that meant nothing. It left a circular scar on his finger.

He heaved a sigh before staring straight into the glass door of the coffin shop. The half-faded reflection of himself struggled for a better view of the white and gold coffin inside the shop. He would never have thought that a day would come when he would be the one buying a coffin for her. For most of their marriage, he had thought he would be the one ending up in one.

The morning he received news from the hospital that Stefflon had died, there was a numbness that iced his heart, leaving him starstruck and lead-heavy. It was not a relief, neither was it a grief. Maybe, a perfect blend of both. No word can picture it holistically.

She had been sick for a very short time, but at some point, she seemed to be getting better. And then one morning, he could never forget. He was able to catch some sleep for the first time since her illness but it was short-lived. It faded away at the expense of a vibration from his phone.

It happened at exactly 3: 13 am. That was when the call came in. The hospital told him she had gone into a coma, minutes earlier and if he would like for her organs to be donated because it was very unlikely, she would make it. He had refused. Stefflon would not have loved the idea of being dissected and giving someone else a chance at life. No. She was too selfish for that. The innocent doctor would never have dared if she knew her as her husband did. It was a fat no-no!

He wasn't fast nor too slow. He just needed to be sure he wasn't hallucinating. He got to the hospital around 4:00 am. He bumped into the sweating doctors in sky-blue scrubs trying to revive her. The moment he stepped into her room; she gave up. Even at that moment, she still chose to be selfish, leaving him with the guilt of everything that had gone wrong in their marriage.

He entered the coffin shop and surprisingly, it did not smell like formalin or death like he always thought coffin shops did. It smelt like an air conditioner and scented candles. The exact type Stefflon used to burn whenever she was taking a shower or helping herself to a glass of red wine and filling the house with 'Queen of the night aria' that she recorded on a phonograph. Wasn't she a woman who wanted to have a taste of life to the fullest?

She would wear her lingerie and sit on one of the one-seater couches in the living room with her blonde hair tied into a neat ponytail.

A glass of wine in one of her hands and her phone in the other. He couldn't consign to oblivion, how she had always took pleasure in getting the best out of life!

Ken walked to the white coffin that had competed with his reflection. He placed a hand on the cross carved with gold on it. Stefflon loved gold, even more than she loved anything else—including him. At least her colour preference was one of the few things he knew about her.

One of the shop attendees walked toward him, she was blonde with blue eyes just like Stefflon. Her name tag had 'Mirabel. A' on it which almost sounded like Stefflon—at least a bit of likeness. But away from her identity tag, her resemblance to Stefflon was stunning—the diamond-shaped face, the sleek sashaying steps, the soothing pitch and the hour-glass shape.

She greeted him with a wide grin that splayed her even set of snow-white teeth. He loved how outstanding they looked on her ox-blooded gums. For a short moment, he thought she also sounded like Stefflon.

Stefflon. His nightmare.