"Chrissy," Charlotte half wailed, "we're going to be late."
"I'm doing my best." Stupid car. Stupid me.
The engine had finally coughed into shape after nearly twenty attempts. Now we were late for David's funeral.
"Left turn, Chrissy, left turn."
I took a sharp turn down a slice of solemn suburbia, ahead the crematorium.
Limp coats were already entering the old stone building.
We shuffled in at the rear, Charlotte dressed in polite black, I, an indifferent grey.
On a plinth lay the casket.
Charlotte's hands trembled, her face bloodless.
"I'm gonna throw up Chrissy."
Hand over mouth, she bolted outside.
I'm linking up with JB47's 100 Word Challenge. This week's prompt was... Grey ...
This is part of a wider story. You can read the other instalments in the series here.