Green.

The sun stuck to the tan Tampa suburban walls.

Why Would Anyone Live in Florida? An indigo sticky note stuck to an old mug asked. The question was rhetorical, the owner of the mug, creator of the question, and placer of the sticky note lived there.

Simone Glen “Green” Greetious was properly insufficient as an individual. As part of a collective, he was worse.

Sticking to the walls, melting down with the sun, he would become intertwined with his furniture and write for eons at a time. His stories were published in all the places no one would ever read, the fine print of cheaply laminated menus and the folding ends of old wallpaper strung into dilapidation.

He had turned old, not overstretched time but in a single compressed instant. His face fired off a panic, a seventeen-year-old child screaming in the mirror at a forty-year-old man. His eyes bent back further than normal to create the appearance of an animatronic. He tried to wear glasses to hide this fact, but it only amplified it. For over ten years no one had seen his teeth. His build was worse than what you would expect, the shape of age, the curvature of a lost fight, and a solemn surrender.

His primary couch was found in front of a dumpster. If preservation was the only goal of furniture, leaving the rotting air and being adopted into Mr. “Green” Greetious’ home was counterproductive. The sun had decayed the flesh of the home, “Green” killed the innards parasitically.

•••

In the twenty-first century, letters never delivered good news. Good news was filled with excitement and urgency, thus faster methods quickly evolved. Bad news never had any intention of meeting its recipient, and in many cases, some wish it never did. To those hopeful few, it never has.

Not yet.

•••

A letter clung to the wall like the owner and the sun. Its right corner fought the humidity and pulled at the wind for any chance to escape. The wind threw it towards the wall, and the letter was helplessly shelved in between the window and the front door. It blended in about as well as any cheap neon green paper blends into tan paint.

Poorly.

It was anyone's guess on how long it had let out muffled screams, strapped to the wall before “Green'' accidentally saved it. That day he stepped outside to see if the weather was still miserable.

It was.

He turned back into his house. The letter caught his attention. The contents caught his consciousness.

The words stuck to the walls with the water droplets that fell in murky heat.

Dear Simone Greetious,

I hope this letter finds you in good health.

I don't know you, but I know you knew my Daughter. I'm sure the news has already reared its ugly head towards you, but if it hasn't, she has been found dead. She was strung in the least amusing and pretty way possible, held by the ceiling fan, and a rope connecting the two. I'm aware you haven't been on speaking terms with her in some time. That in mind, no one else of any prestige appeared in her life, nor did she ever give up her reclusive lifestyle. It would mean a great deal to me for you to speak at her funeral. The slip of paper has the information. Please come.

-Mitchell.

Mr. “Green” Greetious found the invitation clinging to the letter, distinguishing the two only by the quality of each. The letter was personalized, yet the invitation was sloppy, made first, and replicated. It was clear that the invitations were not successful.

You

Are

Invited!

When: December 18, five in the PM.

Please Come. Please Come. Please Come. Please Come. Please Come.

Where: Litchfield Field Park.

Please Come. Please Come. Please Come. Please Come. Please Come.

What: Funeral Service.

Please Come. Please Come. Please Come. Please Come. Please Come.

Flowers: Greatly appreciated!

Thank you for attending!

Please.

Simone had for some time the thought of the girl removed from his head. Her name was Uylga, a detail not included in the letter. The two of them had dated for five months his junior year in high school. She broke up with him for obvious reasons as did he. High school was some time ago. It was far enough removed that he couldn't recall if Mitchell was the father or the mother.

•••

Pacing across the house, tracing his steps over carpet, wood, places where carpet should have been, places where wood should have been. He gradually understood that it was a pathetic situation.

December eighteenth was soon, if only he hadn't stepped outside his house for five more days, no curse of knowledge would have beseeched him. The only arguments against going were his own hermitted lifestyle, and fear of facing the past.

The things he remembered having in common with her. He had no recollection of her even being human, after they broke up, he convinced himself she was a trinket for personal grief. He tried to feel pity for someone so deeply ingrained in his brain as heartless.

He could never make her breathe. There was no way of knowing if his sorrow would fill when going to the funeral, or sitting by himself another night.

There was no way.

In the dent of sympathy for Ulyga, a faint spark in his nerves moved him to complete the actions required for his travel.

His brain denied all movements.

•••

He forced himself out to buy a tux, and plane tickets to Arizona. The tagline was: Hopefully it's nice this time of year!

It wasn’t.

There was nothing remarkable about the travel experience. Six people had grotesque complexion and no one at the airport had mannerisms better than Simone. Each hallway led to a new set of unsightliness, dull lights narrowed his vision and led his feet towards each room leading to a new hallway leading to a plane leading to a hallway leading to a room, leading to a rental car. It drove well enough. He couldn’t remember the last time he had driven a car.

•••

It was a time he was desperately alone. The car was shaped remarkably like a melted jelly bean. Ulyga sat in the back while the road rode ahead. The windows were down. The stars stumbled out of bed. It must have been ages before.

He remembered a melody.

The song played in his mind as he drove through downtown. It was crumbling, the concrete drove into the glass which bore into painted faces plastered to god knows what.

There never was

There never was

There never was a pretty dove.

The radio paired nicely with the tune in his head.

Whoever was

Whoever was

Whoever was the perfect love?

They must’ve been the same song.

They weren’t.

Simone had heard the radio and made a false mental link to the past. No song ever played in actuality when they drove.

It was always quiet.

His mind tried to remove the memory from the silence in his life.

She was unsuccessful.

•••

Upon view of the park, no flags were drawn at half-mast. A family played frisbee, that wasn't the family in question. Stepping out of the rental car, he had parked behind the funeral. The photos were facing opposite of him, and as he walked closer he and the portrait of Uylga shared the same sights.

He approached the stage from the back, blind to what audience would be there. The temperature was perfect for a funeral, and the wind blew nicely so as not to disturb the flags. The portrait of the dead woman clung to the stage, the stage clung to the dying grass. His feet clung to the ground, the rest of his body tried to leave Earth. Two steps brought up to the elevated platform, and walking forward his vision allowed more and more of the expanse of fading green grass. Empty seats came to view in front of a lectern. Seven rows of eight seats lay unfolded, a small army awaiting orders from an empty commander.

Peaking out, hiding in front of the microphone was the single guest.

A grieving parent.

I could not have wanted anything less. The rest of the speech went on as such.

The parent grieved harder.

The wind blew.

No rain fell.

Both people were too far away to see if the other was sobbing.

It was pathetic.