Femme Noir by Clara Nipper Page A

ivory throat would look. Max would crumble and be mine, leaning back against my strong solidity and surrendering everything as she relaxed her head to rest on my shoulder. Did Max even know I was behind her? I was accustomed to dominating, so I spread my legs wide and leaned back, drawing myself up and sending Max vibes of definite intention. Was I mistaken or did I see her twitch? I longed to caress the curly tendrils that escaped the severe updo. I saw her sigh and whisper something to her companion. Sloane read the program. I was going to burn in hell for having these thoughts in a church at my ex’s funeral, my new conscience chastised me. I saw Darcy and Ava-Suzanne and Jhoaeneyie wave. I wondered where Jack was and wished he were here. He would certainly talk to me and maybe share a secret flask. Jhoaeneyie, Darcy, and Ava-Suzanne sat far away once they saw Sloane, who wasn’t aware of them. I now noticed the pews filling gradually. Not filling more than ten back, for each pew was fifty feet long, but filling, nonetheless. The organ played “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” Finally, I noticed the coffin. It appeared to be mahogany. It had gold, carved angel and cherub figures flying up to heaven perched on each corner. The tens of ostentatious sprays of lilies had almost obscured it. There were lilies of every type everywhere, including a massive arrangement on the casket. Apparently, her favorite flower was a consistent truth on which everyone agreed about Michelle. I felt remiss that I hadn’t sent any. But to whom? I just found out Michelle grew up here. This family had no idea who I was. “Send them out of respect,” my mother said in my head, “and it might mean something to them even if they don’t know you. Lord knows if I lost one of my babies, I would want to see who all cared.” Yeah, okay, Ma, I vowed.
    At “Amazing Grace” my tears rose again and I chewed my cheeks hard to stop them. I heard the doors close and the crowd get quiet. I struggled to see the family, but they were hidden out of view in a private chapel to the right of the minister.
    A string quartet seated themselves in front of the pulpit and I realized how expensive all this was. The coffin gleamed of money, as well as all the finishing touches like black crepe draped in swooping arcs behind the minister, an oil portrait of Michelle in a gilt frame on a gold stand, all the music and flowers. My mind reeled. Hadn’t Michelle hated these people enough to estrange herself?
    The minister was in full formal robes and as his mellow, comforting voice filled the church, I retreated, observing my sadness. How difficult it must be to do a service for a wretch who was murdered, I thought. Then, tuning everything out, I relived my Michelle mistake. In the spaces between my breathing, I realized with a jolt that I never really liked Michelle. And that I only thought I had loved her. Michelle was a difficult, unfulfilling pain in the ass, in spite of the sweet, genuine moments. Then why? Why did I do it? I knew better, didn’t I? As I retreated deeper, my grief became larger and my struggle for control more desperate. I mourned for the loss of the dream that Michelle had been right for me. I mourned all the fantasies that had kept me stuck and were now shattered. I mourned that I had no love in my life and maybe never had, other than my family and friends. No deep, intimate marital love. I had never loved anyone. Maybe I couldn’t. I liked a great many women: Cherisse, Tonya, even Sloane, but never love. I respected and admired them and loved them in an affectionate, general way, like an entire species. So why Michelle? What had possessed me? I never did an irrational thing in my entire life. It was becoming clearer and clearer to me exactly how obviously wrong that entire relationship had been. It’s as if the answers were buried in deep, black, murky water and the longer I examined the questions, the closer to the surface the answers rose, eventually