She doesn't know what she's doing here.
She should be at home with him, having sex or fighting over stupid things, like why did he eat her pack of breadsticks and why does she keep insulting him. She should be at the cinema with him, watching some weird action flick with Tom Cruise or Angelina Jolie. She should be at Breadstix with him, sharing a plate of pizza and a bottle of beer. She should be at the station, reminding him over the phone it's his turn to attempt to cook, whilst waiting for a case.
She should be anywhere but here.
But she is here, and that's what sucks. She's standing here, in a black dress with a black coat and black fishnet tights, clutching a black umbrella. Of course it's fucking raining. The whole thing is just like a bad movie.
Except she's living it.
She can't hear anything that anybody's saying. She's can't even see anything except for the large coffin being lowered into the ground.
She's Santana Hudson and this is her husband's funeral.