I was wearing a completely inappropriate shade of pink.
“We’re just going to stop by for a few minutes,” said Bobbi, “Show Trish our support.”
She turned into the funeral home’s parking lot.
“Bobbi, look at me,” I said from the back seat, “I can’t go in there wearing this.”
“Oh you look fine. No one will notice.” She took quite a mighty tone for someone all swaddled in a modest, black sweater.
“No one will notice? Not if my hot pink boobs have anything to say about it.”
“Hush, we’re here for Trish.”
And that was the end of it, because as much as I love Bobbi you’d probably have a better time with quantum physics than win an argument with her.
So, that’s how I ended up attending Trish Hurley’s grandfather’s showing dressed in a snug, hot pink minidress. Some girl’s night.
It’s not that I wasn’t sad about the old guy, I was. I mean I don’t like it when anybody dies. And funerals and showings, they’re hard. I just didn’t want to go in there. Trish Hurley be damned. I didn’t even know her middle name.
To be continued? I'm not even sure what this is, but I've got some ideas.
This seem interesting. I can't wait to read the complete story.
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