Comport

Underneath her veil, the widow held her head high. In all black, she was the perfect picture of mourning and respect. She gripped her dignity as tight as her pristine white handkerchief, which had yet to wipe away a tear.

She ignored the whispers. The way the men glanced at her with pity. The other women, some of whom were crying. They would miss him, and the jewelry, the trips to Europe, the penthouse apartments in Manhattan.

Well, the widow did not feel sorry for them. She had been in mourning so long now -- nearly fifty years -- for the man she'd fallen in love with. The young man with ambition, who'd proposed with an IOU for a ring and sincerity in his eyes. She'd lost him to the skyscrapers and the board meetings, the profit margins and the on-site evaluations, the shareholders and the secretaries.

This funeral was for another man, a man she didn't know. But she'd heard lots about him, so she almost felt like she did. That would have to be enough. Enough for her to put on this show.

Maybe later tonight she would cry -- or smile -- as she put away his things and took out the ones she loved most, the ones that belonged to the man she'd married.