The Things We Bury

The funeral was exactly the kind of event Eleanor had spent years perfecting — seamless, tasteful, and utterly hollow. She stood at the back of the chapel, watching colleagues weep theatrical tears for a man who'd made their lives miserable. Her palm sweated against her clutch, the damp leather grounding her in a reality she'd learned to navigate like a sleepwalker.

Marcus caught her eye from across the room. He wore his father's hat — a battered fedora that had somehow become ironic, then authentic, then something else entirely. Three years of clandestine meetings in supply closets and hotel bars had taught her that love was just exhaustion wearing a better suit.

"You look like a zombie," he'd whispered last night, his thumb tracing the vein in her wrist. She'd laughed, because what else was there to do? They were both walking corpses, animated by coffee and the vague promise of something better.

Now the eulogist was droning on about legacy and vision. Eleanor thought about the palm reader she'd visited on impulse two weeks ago — the woman who'd taken one look at her hand and said, "You're waiting for something that already ended."

Marcus was making his way toward her through the crowd. The hat tilted slightly, acknowledging what they couldn't say aloud. Their affair had died somewhere between the Q3 projections and the Christmas party, neither of them willing to be the one to formally end it. So they'd kept going through the motions, zombie-like in their persistence.

"Hey," he said, stopping close enough that she could smell the mint he'd chewed to cover the whiskey. "You okay?"

"Fine," she lied. "You?"

"Same." His gaze drifted toward the coffin. "Wonder if anyone will actually miss him."

"I will," she said, surprising herself. "He was terrible, but he was terrible consistently. That's rare these days."

Marcus laughed, short and sharp. "God, we're cynical."

"We're tired," she corrected. "There's a difference."

He adjusted his hat, then his jaw, as if bracing himself. "Eleanor—"

"Don't," she said gently. "Please. Let's just... let this be one thing we don't ruin."

He nodded slowly. "Okay. But after the service—"

"After the service, I'm going home. Alone."

He looked at her for a long moment, really looked at her, as if trying to memorize something he'd already forgotten. Then he tipped the hat and walked away.

Eleanor watched him go, palm still slick against her clutch. The zombie inside her stirred, restless, hungry for something she couldn't name. Some things, she realized, were better left buried.