AN: I just woke up with this in my head. I have no idea where it came from but I couldn't go back to sleep without getting it out. I apologize in advance.
She wears blue to his funeral.
Her uniform is thick and stiff, the industrial wool heavy on her skin. The band of her hat cuts into her forehead as she stands at the foot of his casket, watches a sobbing Alexis accept the honorary flag with trembling hands. Her own gloved hands clench tightly at her side, the urge to run, to put as much distance between herself and this scene as possible surging through her tightly coiled muscles.
She doesn't speak; couldn't if she wanted. Words haven't come in days, her voice muted alongside his. Her heart beats out a mournful arrhythmia, skipping beats when she thinks about his face. About the shape of his hands and the way he made her feel precious and revered. About the way he'd slowly slipped away from her, an apology swimming in his glassy eyes.
He knew. He knew what she refused to accept, her body hunched over his, the sun melting the asphalt beneath them back down to a sticky tar as she tried desperately to stem the flow, to plug the hole in his chest with the weight of her body and the force of her love. She'd batted away his last act of love and compassion with a shake of her head, her too small hands pressed futilely to his once white shirt. He'd tried so hard to say goodbye.
She wishes she'd listened.
Her left hand lifts to her chest, fingers digging into the scratchy material, searching for the shape of the ring that rests heavily under her jacket. It's familiar but different; the diamond is bigger, the band platinum instead of gold. She'd found in his dresser, her hand brushing over the velvet box while searching for his favorite socks, the blue ones with the little winged typewriters. Her ring finger tingles with the phantom weight it will never bear.
She'd had no idea he was going to ask.
She would have said yes.
The mourners disperse, pulling away in cars as dark as their clothes, and she remains, her feet rooted to the brittle brown grass as the groundsmen start their work. She watches as they dismantle the podium, roll up the scratchy green carpets, their brows glistening with sweat. A soft hand lands on her arm when the mound of dirt is halfway gone, the dull thud of soil against wood echoing in her ears.
"Come on, darling," Martha whispers, the scent of her flowery perfume making Kate's stomach churn. "You don't need to watch this."
Kate lets the older woman thread their fingers but resists her pull, her eyes fixed on the slowly filling hole.
He left her but she won't do the same.