CLOSED STARTER for @gracieevanss, on the cemetary grounds.
Fingers reach out, through space and time and history and nip at Grace’s before interlacing with them. Taking them all, demanding five of them which is quite a humble act, considering Mila would like to lay claim to all of them, here. It’s a depressing affair. An angering one — one pulled out of another life, a previous one, a life left behind. And yet here she is, caught in a family affair of grief once again.
It’s futile to pretend that she isn’t afflicted, as if grief isn’t banging on her doors wanting to be let in while rage guards the door. But still, she can reach out, take Grace’s hand, squeeze it. Because the other needs it — not because she does, of course. (She does, a little.) “Hey, you.” The ground beneath them is softened by the drizzle and maybe some of her black mascara tears, too. Mila stares at a gravestone, quickly calculating the age of the deceased stranger (78 years) before looking at Grace. “Do you want to grab the same car, on our way out of here?”
The press will be waiting, vultures with flashing cameras. Mila can be the hero, Grace behind her as she basks in their lights. More importantly, she craves proximity. To keep an eye out or to rest her head on a shoulder or all at the same time. She offers a squeeze of her hand, gestures around with her free one, “This is a beautiful place, at least.”
