I wrote my best friend’s obit and left out what mattered most. It wasn’t the remaining children, his second wife, or being a mechanic. He didn’t love being a husband or fatherhood. He liked to drink and so did his women, so the kids came naturally. I witnessed him at dance competitions and ball games with foam on his mustache, head down, watching the Browns on his phone. And I’ve felt him huddled against me in the hood of his Cadillac Series 62, saying, jokingly, “No, God damn it,” a wall of booze on his breath as he clutched my hand instead of taking the wrench, quipping that it’s my pussy grip from sitting at a desk all day. Together, we twisted, our bodies creating torque, and when the bolt popped loose, he chuckled and slapped my back but didn’t lift his hand.
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“Obit” was a finalist in The SmokeLong Grand Micro Contest 2024.
