Laura Harrier

I don't know what's... The woman turned to the glass top counter and took up her order pad, wondering, who let this guy out on his own?

He was a walking coma.

It had to be his wife.

Had she just blinked out like a burst bulb in the bed next to him?

And then he didn't know what to do, standing over the bed in his wrinkled underwear talking to the 911 operator while the paramedics stormed through the apartment and slapped on the paddles, jumping her body off the bed six, seven, eight times before he finally threw the phone down and told him to stop.

Tell me a little about the funeral?

This man is completely disoriented, the woman thought, watching him shift his feet and grip the counter like a crutch.

He's surprised.

He feels betrayed.

Were there any last words from his wife before her heart stopped?

Did she just roll all of her warm weight over onto him, just as for its light before real dawn, and pushed one or two last breaths of ecstasy over the edge of his ear, taking him into her before he even knew he was ready so that it was not like two people moving together, but instead just one person exploding?

Had he been waiting for that always?

And now she was cremated and sitting on a mint-colored box in their kitchen table.

A centerpiece.

An accusation.

Of course it would be that way.

Well, again, I'm sorry for your loss.

I think I know what you mean with the wheatgrass.

They use shallow planters and then trim it level.

It has a very striking green color.