We Fucked on the Stairwell After the Funeral

She didn’t cry during the service. Not once. Not even when they closed the casket and his mother collapsed like a folding chair. Not even when they played that fucking song he hated, the one she picked, the one she said reminded her of when they first met.

She was dry-eyed. And trembling.

I drove her back. Said nothing. Let the radio hum static. The house was empty. No after-tears, no casserole people. Just the silence he left behind.

We sat on the steps. Between floors. Between choices. She had her shoes off. Her stockings torn at the heel. Her lipstick smeared already — not from grief.

She kissed me first. It wasn’t soft. It was the kind of kiss that tastes like punishment. Her nails dug. My belt buckle tore something in her skirt. She straddled me and bit down when I said his name.

She said don’t.

She said I’m not here to be sad.

She said I can’t feel the hole unless someone fills it.

She pulled my trousers halfway down. The stair dug into my spine. Her teeth grazed. Her thighs shook. She whispered something that sounded like forgive me but ended in a moan.

I came inside her. Not out of love. Not even desire. Out of obligation. Out of hunger. Out of pure, dumb, bloody need.

After, she wiped herself with the service leaflet. His name in bold. Dates below. Psalm printed in faded grey. She left it on the floor and lit a cigarette.

I asked if she’d loved him.

She said no.
But he loved me. And that was enough.

She asked if I felt guilty. I didn’t answer.

She said
Then it doesn’t count.

I haven’t been to another funeral since.