The other mourners were huddled under the cold, soggy blanket of quiet introspection, oblivious to everything save the misery in their hearts and the growling in their stomachs. This was unfortunate for me: a livelier crowd might have been able to intervene before anything untoward had taken place. As this was not the case, I was left to act upon my urges without any interference beyond the pangs of my own inadequate conscience. I simply could not dislodge the notion from my thoughts that, if this was really to be our last moment together, if I was doomed to a future that was to be dominated by her absence rather than her attentions, I had to demonstrate the irrefutable fact of my devotion one last time, and public disapproval be damned.

Before being fully aware of my intention to do so, I leapt down into the still-open grave, my black dress slacks tangled awkwardly around my ankles. The hard soles of my shoes slid on the polished surface of the coffin, but I was able to steady myself by clutching at the surrounding walls of damp earth. I wedged myself to one side and applied what little leverage I could manage to lid. It proved much easier to lift than I had expected. In the fevered rush of the moment, this fact somehow seemed to confirm inevitability of my actions.

One leg had already been manoeuvred into the coffin's interior before I noticed that the situation had gone awry. I raised my eyes to admire once again that face - a face that I knew had lost none of its bewitching quality, even after death; but instead was confronted by the sight of something else altogether. Despite the awkwardness of my position, hunched over the open container with one leg crookedly hoisted over the side, the shock of it left me frozen in place. Returning my dumbfounded stare was a young goat, entirely hairless and bound at the ankles; its eyes rolling sightlessly in its pink, rubbery head; its expression imploring me to do something that I dared not even consider...
M7(8)