And again, and again

After Alfie died, his mum invited all three of us to go to his funeral. We broke down his bedroom door, took out his bin and made his bed. We pinned a Polaroid of his face to the communal fridge, next to Charlie’s cat pics. We clung together in creased tops and scrambled ties. Jeanie Jacobsen’s wearing her black skirt and puffy yellow blouse, and I tell her she looks like a bumblebee.

Back when she moved in fresh out of school, I thought she fancied Alfie, but Alfie liked Charlie, and I think Charlie liked me. Today we all love Alfie. I tell both the girls I love them instead, and the three of us hold hands in a circle, but I squeeze Jeanie’s hand tighter. After that, we slot into Charlie’s tiny car, hold our heads and cigarettes out the windows and sway to the music enough for the vehicle to swerve with us.

Outside the church, we meet the minister who hands us each a flyer with Alfie’s face, the same photo we stuck to the fridge. Then the church bells ring and the two girls start walking inside, but my legs become ribbons in the grass. When Jeanie returns to check on me, I ask her if she’ll wait here with me. She says she should really go, so I ask her to describe it to me, and she kisses me on the cheek.

I sit cross-legged on the grass outside the church by myself plucking petals from someone else’s funeral flowers one by one, folding them into ropes and letters, and I’ve got this new thing. My eyes are closed, but I see Jeanie walking to church again, and again, and—