Music Monday: Baby's In Black by The Beatles

A fictional interpretation of a song by The Beatles

It was a stroke that killed him.

His brain finally overpowered his body, and my first thought was it’s about time.

“Oh my god.” She said. “We have to go to the funeral.”

“I’m not going.” I said.

“What’s the matter with you?” She asked. “He’s dead!”

As if I didn’t know.


He was the head of the English Department at her University.

In his spare time, he taught free art classes to underprivileged children. When she invited him over for dinner one night, he brought an expensive bottle of wine. I tried to hate it, but I only hated him.

I saw the way she looked at him, the way her eyes lit up with excitement when she talked about him. She started staying late at her classes “to study” and I pretended I didn’t know.

I’m glad he’s dead.


“Why are you going?” I asked her as she dressed for his funeral.

“Because.” She said, adjusting the straps of her black dress.

“Because why? He was just your teacher.”

“And my friend.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me. He was a good friend.”

“I’m sure.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m going.”

“But why?”

“Because at my funeral, I don’t want people to ask that question.”

Then, she grabbed her purse and left.


She believed in karma.

I wondered if, as she stood at his funeral in her black dress, black heels, and red lips, she thought this is karma. She never told me. I never asked.


She came home and cried. I held her until her tears dried.

Then we went to bed.


She wore black for six months. 

The proper grieving time, she said.

For widowers, I said.

She said nothing.


What if he hadn’t died? 

Would she have realized her mistake?

Would we have been okay again?

I guess we’ll never know.

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