To CJ

The car pulled into a peaceful, neat, almost sterile garden, full of beautiful blossoms and mature trees lining the perimeter.

We arrived at a bare car park. We were the first to get there. Phew. A few moments of peace and quiet to plan and navigate my unconventional ‘party’ of four (me in cuffs and three others in uniform) before He, the cortege, and some dignitaries arrived.

We took a walk around the crematorium as the guards expertly surveyed the area. A sombre-looking funeral director greeted us at the front door, clearly baffled.

CJ, my devoted guard, threw her jacket over our attached wrists, giving me her ‘you can do it’ look. “Looking gorgeous. Own it, girl, and keep your chin up,” she commanded. We moved back into the garden like Siamese twins welded together.

And here comes the Bitch—my age-old rival—gracefully gliding towards me, radiating elegance and an expensive scent. She exhaled precious pearls of sophisticated vocabulary. She was everything I had ever wanted to be—lean, tall, blonde, gorgeous, a master of small talk, forceful, ambitious, and always, always triumphant. And me? Resilient, curvy shrimp, forced for years to look upwards just to maintain eye contact with her.

She was, of course, full of compassion, darling. Far too smart not to be—or was she inwardly revelling in triumph at seeing a caged, chained free spirit out of her way? “The competition is over, sunshine,” I told her silently. “I’m not your rival. But the victory is still to be announced. One day!”

CJ measured her with an intense gaze, ready to come to my rescue. “Excuse us, ma’am; we’re off to the loo before the ceremony starts,” she said, hastily retreating with me to attend to a persistent call of nature.

By the WC, CJ pulled a long, shiny chain out of her pocket, as prescribed by protocol. “Seriously?! I will not be chained to the loo like a dangerous beast—it’s humiliating enough as it is!” Dutiful CJ quickly stepped into the cubicle with me, still attached at the wrist, as I had the most unconventional piss of my life, handcuffed to a lesbian guard. In a split second, she thoughtfully and skilfully choreographed our bizarre manoeuvre around the cubicle to preserve my dignity. “I love my job,” she whispered, looking away bashfully. “Now, let’s gracefully move out of here.”

As we emerged and stepped ‘back into the room,’ I noticed familiar faces gathering into a crowd—bemused, shocked, a few consoling. Some looked away from me; others stared right through me, while a few approached. “No, no, it’s not what you think, you bunch of old perverts!” I screamed silently through my eyes. “CJ and I are just friends. Oh, alright, she’s my guard, and we’re handcuffed together. But she’s lovely and kind.” I summoned all my energy to keep up appearances, pretending it wasn’t my wrist chained to hers.

Lionel the Snake surveyed me with disgust before following the procession. “Listen, you—are you judging me? Are you?” CJ sensed the dynamic and squeezed my icy-cold hand as I maintained my frozen smile, and she manoeuvred us away from him.

More vaguely familiar, nameless faces flashed through the crowd. My frozen smile came in handy. “Of course I remember you!” But who were they anyway? Probably people I’d briefly met once or twice in my life.

John the Friend finally mustered the courage to make eye contact. “I’m okay, John. In chains but still the same as ever—please believe me,” I tried to say with my eyes.

These good, decent people, part of my social circle from the past—dinner parties, Christmas cards—were slowly realising that the handcuff on my wrist didn’t define me nor had it changed me. Some even began warming to my unconventional company in uniform and struck up small talk with the guards. CJ, however, wouldn’t entertain small talk; her mission today was to ensure the handcuffs didn’t bruise either my spirit or my wrist.

Faithful to his lifelong habit, late as ever, arrived the ‘party boy,’ the reason for this genteel gathering. In a smart coffin covered in wreaths, he’d always been sensitive to environmental issues and wanted to be buried in cardboard. His dying wish had been lost in translation and subsequently dismissed. I imagined his corpse lying in the fancy wooden box and wondered what he was wearing for the occasion. He’d have pulled off a dinner jacket with a black tie, but I knew he would’ve felt much cosier in his scruffy cardigan with its multitude of holes and permanent stains, paired with what used to be beige corduroy trousers. Tough luck, old boy—I kept the cardigan. It smelled of him. I wished he’d been buried in the denim he stopped wearing after surgery because it had become too restrictive. He’d looked so handsome in that denim when we first met. I preferred not to enquire, remaining content with my favourite picture of him.

We sat on the front bench, contrary to guidelines. I didn’t want to see the crowd. I picked up the order of service sheet, reading the list of hymns. I could almost picture his expression—a cocktail of mild irritation, hilarity, and graceful tolerance. He and I would probably have shared an overwhelming desire for it all to be over.

Lionel the Snake opened the service with an elaborate keynote speech to make amends with the faithful departed. When the service and speeches ended, and the distinguished crowd began to disperse, CJ and I moved as one towards the coffin. She knelt beside me to say goodbye to the man—a total stranger to her until today. Together, we sobbed in the empty hall over the remains of my thirty-year-long, very complicated marriage.