Graveside

 Today I went to visit Kelly's grave. It was our Wedding anniversary. I always bring flowers, and stand chatting to her in the drizzle. It was an October wedding. There's always drizzle. 

There's a small carpark in the cemetery, big enough for perhaps three cars and, as I went down the pathway, I saw there was a car parked there. "Great." I looked around. There was no one else in the graveyard. The person in the car had obviously just dropped off some flowers and had a quick pray and would be off. This was good as they really were quite close to Kelly's grave. 

As I got close, some things became clear. A woman with short grey hair was in the driver's seat. The engine was on. She was listening to music, and she was scrolling down her phone. I made my way to the grave and placed my now traditional bouquet of lilies on it. And tried to focus. 

But I couldn't focus. The woman's car was about ten feet away. I could hear the engine purr, hear the squeak of her windscreen wipers, the clouds of whatever was coming out of her exhaust skirting the car like a hovercraft. I could hear her music playing and I could see her, sitting in the car, her fingers prodding away at her phone. She looked up briefly, and we made eye contact. This was my chance. I tried to infuse in my stare a look of such seething, gut-gnawing dislike, combined with hollow-eyed sorrow, she'd blanche like wilting lettuce, and three point her way out of my life. Instead she went back to scrolling. She didn't even acknowledge me. He car continued to shiver and steam. I thought I could make out "As It Was" by Harry Styles. 

I couldn't believe it. The rest of the graveyard was empty. There was not another person in it. I was there for fifteen minutes and it coincided with this woman doing the admin for her affair. What other reason would she have for hiding out in a graveyard and furiously texting. Even that didn't explain why she didn't turn the engine off. Just park up and do your sordid graveside sexting without destroying the environment. Why the fight or flight response? Why Harry Styles? I come here three time a year. What are the chances of my coinciding with this woman with short grey hair, driving a silver Kia, with an Ulster Radio air freshener hanging from her rear view mirror, squatting amongst the veiled urns and lichen? 

I ignored her. I found focus. I chatted to Kelly about the depressing state of the world, about all the things she would hate, that she would be so, so angry about. About the selfishness, the self-involvement, the numbness of the modern world. A place where the drawbridge is constantly up, and where "We're Gonna Build A Wall" and "Stop The Small Boats" are political power grabs. The small-mindedness, the insularity, the lack of care. All the things that were the opposite of how Kelly carried herself. Her kindness, her generosity. Her interest in people. 

I told her about what was going on with me. My family. All the things. I'm a DJ now. Yeah. Her eyes would have been rolling in her grave. The rain stopped. The sun came out. I went back to the car where Susan was waiting for me. The engine off, of course. 

This is only half a story. A real storyteller, a master anecdotist, David Sedaris, say, would've properly got in there. He'd have known there was 1000 words in The New Yorker in this. He'd have knocked on the window. He'd have told her what he thought of her. There might have been some sort of explanation, an act of contrition, or aggressive abuse, a solipsistic defence of her rights as an individual, soundtracked by Sam Fender. Sedaris would have got something out of it, detailing the minutiae with fraudulent fine-shading. Come on, Dave, no one can remember exactly what they were thinking when they were 13. Don't shit a shitter. 

I didn't do that. At the end of my fifteen minute confessional, the woman was still there, still diligently prodding at her phone. She knew what I was doing. She saw me place the flowers. She saw the glare. She saw me talking to a gravestone in the rain. I was probably waving my hands. She may not have seen my tears in the rain. She didn't care. She wasn't basically decent. She just didn't have it in her to empathise with ongoing grief. She just wanted to sit texting in a graveyard in Gulladuff, listening to radio with her engine running, clouds of carcinogenic vape billowing from her unholy arse. 

I gave her a hard stare as I passed. I gave her another on the other side of the car. And then I went back up the pathway. She's probably still there now, wreathed in car exhaust. If you want to text your boyfriend without your husband finding out just do it in the shower, yeah? Don't intrude upon the finer feelings of others. 

I don't have time to explain feelings to you, no. You lack the knack.