This story was the runner-up in the Weaver Words/Frodsham Literature Festival flash fiction competition 2021. Copyright is held by the author.
IF I’D been preparing it, or my shop assistant, I’d have gone for the fresh rose, ‘Avalanche Peach’. Set against the copper beech, laurel, and ruscus leaves it would have provided a delicate display — a demonstration of your devotion. But those bright red berries should have been left out. You could still have kept it a classic but informal wreath, then added one or two other strong pieces of backing foliage, like Anthurium leaves — not Anthurium flowers with the penis-y yellow thing protruding in the middle. That woman at Go-Floral should have told you the design wouldn’t be suitable to be recycled into a vase after the funeral — the stems were too short.
As she cocked her head and looked into your teary eyes that was when she knew to suggest the wreath could be edged with pink satin ribbon, in a heart shape. You knew that would be perfect for what you had in mind.
What resolve! I watch you on telly, flanked by the police, pleading for anyone with information to come forward. You: She is . . . was everything to me, my wife, my angel. You bend forward at the table, your hands covering your face.
It’s early days yet. You think you’re in clover.
Angel was always amongst the cajoling words in the aftermath when I was thoroughly cowed. These wings might look fluffy and delicate, but they’re a strong, balancing mechanism for me to sit unseen — but not unheard — on Diana’s shoulder, whispering in her ear, implanting clues, sowing the seeds of ideas about witnesses. You’ll be meeting her again very soon. She’s the detective with the best clear-up rate in the homicide squad.