Reservoir Tears

A non-told story is what the afternoon of an average Sunday is asking me to tell. I don’t even know where to start looking for the gateway that leads me to the exact day I met Micka - by sheer coincidence or something akin to that - next to the grave of some random corpse whom he didn’t even knew the name of, but he cried as if this corpse had been his best buddy his entire life. And that’s how Micka made his bread and butter: crying over the dead man’s body that crossed his way and then accompany the family over to the house for the talk, comfort, and free food, making a toast to the dead, or making small conversation with the deceased’s friends, family, and even the occasional mistress.

God damn! That’s what friends are for, right? To remind the world that the dead man is not him or you, but rather the one with dirt for a sheet and who didn’t seem care if Micka dated the wife, the daughter, the girlfriend, and whom Micka didn’t care for until next morning's sunrise, when he would slither away amongst the shadows to find another corpse to cry for, get a free meal and move on. It wasn’t as if it was something difficult to do, since the city had become a battle field of epic proportions, and Micka was always good in giving a speech that would make people forget the evil spirits that dwindle upon those who had recently parted, converting them in some righteous soul who just happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

God damn! That’s what friends are for, right? Because it wasn’t long that after the burial of the son of some rich Senator, the bullets began raining on the entire family just as they were serving the caviar at the fancy dinner funeral party, and Micka was the one at the wrong place, at the wrong time, hanging with the wrong crowd. And here I am, at this effortless, unknown burial. The truth is that Micka never had any real friends but me, the one soul who never abandoned him at his burials and funeral parties, much less at his own. The only problem is that I should get going because, since there won’t be any cheese crackers or fine wine in his funeral, I need my tears for the one that’s just coming across the graveyard’s gates and (by the look of things) it promises to be well worth the wait.


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