St. Jules or To A Friend Shot Dead

Twenty one felt ancient at the time. Years past high school, three years of college, and here they were all grown up, fully realized, standing at the foot of Mike's open casket. Who's decision was that, the open casket?  Dressed in his favourite shirt, the grey, red and white watery plaid, he looks like he's sleeping. Pompadour in place, cheeks too pink, skin an unfamiliar waxy grey. This is when twenty one feels childlike. Overwhelming. None of this makes sense to them. Mike was Max's friend who fell in love with Jennifer's cookies. One of her regulars. Every day before his shift he'd come by the cookie store and wax poetic about the glory of the simple Chocolate Chunk. Who needed the Menage A Trois?  he'd say. Three types of chocolate was bludgeoning you over the head. Nah, straight up dark chocolate is the only one worth eating, according to Mike. His half cocked grin slowly slid across his mouth. Knowing. Jen would occasionally throw in an extra cookie, free of charge. He'd never say anything but she knew he understood. The newspaper said shot at point blank range. The funeral parlour was full of man-children milling about sporting make shift black armbands. Someone had made a collage of polaroids and yearbook pictures pasted onto a sheet of yellow bristolboard. Leaning against an easel, it's top heavy corners threatened to collapse in on itself. After three hours of maudlin shuffling and lingering, Jennifer caught Max's arm. Let's go, ok? He lifted his eyes to meet hers, lips parted. No words, just an uptick of his chin, Max's way of saying he's done, too. Flights of angels and all that, he says, almost inaudibly but eyes around them lift and register their departure. It's time.