Julia watched the pallbearers lower the coffin into a grave, with long creaking straps. She sat in the front row in big black sunglasses. Threads of smoke floated up from a filter less cigarette whose coal burned dangerously near her fingertips. The air around her smelled like wet clothes, everything dark and subdued. Shiny beetles crawled in the undergrowth. The straps were pulled up. The minister blessed the grave and sprinkled it with holy water. Dirt and dark.
Her husband suffered an untimely death. The king and Julia went out for a walk and he fell to his death. He hadn't seen it coming. He hadn't even understood, there wasn't time. Teetering back on the cliff as if on the edge of the swimming pool: comic yodel, windmilling arms.
The king's family sobbed monotonously.
A large wasp was flying in erratic darts and circles over their heads. The minister flailed at it uselessly with the memorial service bulletin, had succeeded in enraging it. It dove towards Julia's head but, finding her unresponsive, turned in midair and landed in front of her. Julia killed with one big thwack from the book of common prayers. The wasp still clung with one black feeler to the edge of the pew. There was no one to control her behavior, she was in complete power now. Her mouth, covered in red smudged lipstick broke into a slow, wide, smile.