I trudge through the mud in the rain. The weather matches my dreary mood, my clothes do not. I'm adorned in a mix of neon pink and green, I can see her smiling at me because of it.
I stand up, clear my throat, and stumble through the gibberish that I know they've come to hear.
I'm only halfway done when I see the judgemental stares being cast my way. I try to push through with no avail.
I break, and run over to her.
I press my lips hard to hers. They're plump and made up, but also cold and unforgiving.
I can hear the crowd gasp in horror. To them, I'm nothing more than the lavender-haired girl who lives in the coffee shop.
To Meg, I'll always be the shoulder to cry on. The one to help her get through breakups. The one to bring bra shopping, and to ask for advice about dating, about life.
Now I'm neither. I'm the thirty-year-old woman who kissed the corpse.
If she'd only have asked. My advice would have been to keep living.
