I wanted to wear the little black dress I’d bought for my fifteenth birthday party, my death dress,
but I didn’t fit into it anymore, so I wore a plain black dress, knee-length.
Augustus wore the same thin-lapeled suit he’d worn to Oranjee.
As I knelt, I realized they’d closed his eyes—of course they had—and that I would never again see his blue eyes.
“I love you present tense,” I whispered, and then put my hand on the middle of his chest and said, “It’s okay, Gus.
It’s okay. It is. It’s okay, you hear me?” I had—and have—absolutely no confidence that he could hear me.
I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Okay,” I said. “Okay.” I suddenly felt conscious that there were all these people watching us,
that the last time so many people saw us kiss we were in the Anne Frank House.
But there was, properly speaking, no us left to watch. Only a me.
I snapped open the clutch, reached in, and pulled out a hard pack of Camel Lights.
In a quick motion I hoped no one behind would notice, I snuck them into the space between his side and the coffin’s plush silver lining.
“You can light these,” I whispered to him. “I won’t mind.”
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