The men bringing her coffined (confined?) ex-husband’s body struggled up the hill the cemetery lay on, stepping over other gravestones and the debris left by previous funerals; discarded flower wrappings, beer bottles and paper cups.
Pablo’s younger brother Miguel, the same height and shape as their father, was having an especially hard time given his limited height and build compared to the tall Americans carrying the heavy wooden box. He was sweating profusely, in part due to the prior night’s drinking, and in part owing to the fight for a foothold as he staggered towards Pablo’s final resting place. The younger of the two, he and his brother had the temperamental relationship that was the norm between most members of their family, oscillating between intense love and harmony, judgement, offence and then silence. Repeat.
(This is the second installment of the fictional NARCOTICA. Start from the beginning here).
The Wolves were circling now. They came down from the graveside to accompany the coffin bearers, the guitarist hanging the amplifier on a shoulder strap. The accordionist didn’t miss a beat as he also walked fast, and occasionally staggered, alongside the long wooden box and its bearers. The guitarist was right behind him. Both of them looked a little old for this shit but proved themselves adequately agile.
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