“At least he had a few weeks with his family after the accident, eh? Good weeks—his wee party, Keith’s fortieth.
He got a chance to spend time with all the people he loved.” I nodded.
“Can I ask you something, Raymond?” I said. He looked at me. “What’s the etiquette for funerals?
Are mourners still required to wear black, and are hats de rigueur?” He shrugged.
No idea... just wear whatever you want, I guess. Sammy’s not the kind of guy who’d be bothered about that sort of thing, is he?”
I pondered this. “I’ll wear black,” I said, “to be on the safe side. No hat, though.”
“No, I’m not wearing a hat either,” said Raymond, and we actually laughed.
We laughed far longer than his feeble witticism merited, just because it felt good.
We didn’t speak on the walk back to the office. The weak sun was in our faces, and I held mine up to it for a moment, like a cat.
Raymond was scuffing through the light carpet of fallen leaves, his red training shoes flashing through all the bronze.
A gray squirrel bounded in fluid semicircles across our path, and there was that almost autumnal smell in the air, apples and wool.
We didn’t even speak when we got inside. Raymond took both my hands in his and squeezed them,
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