June 2011

The church was packed.

The scents of greenery, coffee breath, and perfume lay like dense clouds among the pews. It was difficult to breathe. Glances, lightning quick, leapt her way, and whispers rustled like leaves. Less than two minutes into the service, the rank humidity of scandal crossed its dew point, causing sweat to bead at the base of Anna’s spine.

She ignored it. She ignored the sideways glances and backhand whispers. She pressed her palm against her belly and willed herself not to vomit.

Instead, a bitter laugh welled up her throat and bubbled past her lips before she could stop it. Heads swiveled toward her—faces both reproving and pitying.

What’s to be done—you tell me that, what’s to be done? Your wife gets older, while you’re full of life. Before you’ve time to look round, you feel that you can’t love your wife with love, however much you may esteem her.

Stepan Arkadyevitch’s line from Anna Karenina surfaced in Anna’s head and she submerged another acerbic laugh.

She needed to get a hold of herself. She shouldn’t laugh at her husband’s funeral.

Should she?