Evelyne sat in her cramped cubicle, furiously typing away. Each clank of the keys, the whispers of the gossiping editors, and the sound of coffee brewing weren’t enough to distract her from putting her words onto paper. It was only when the infuriatingly familiar grey pair of eyes she felt staring at her decided to speak, that she finally looked back.

“Mrs. Smint finally kicked the bucket” Louis mused, reading the half completed obituary from behind.

She sighed, tilting the typewriter so the text was no longer in view. “If you truly care to read about her, the papers will be out by noon.”

Louis smiled, his long nose wrinkling up. He was a handsome young man, Evelyne always believed so. It was a pity, though, that his face was wasted on a someone like him.

“Why read it when I have you here as a great narrator to your little story” he drawled, leaning against the wobbly walls separating her cubicle and his.

Evelyn furrowed her brows, looking up at him with as much disdain as as a cat that licked vinagre. “That’s an awfully disrespectful thing to say! This is not a story, it’s the obituary of a recently deceased woman, and you should be treating it with respect!”

Louis’s eyes narrowed like the gaze of an eagle. “Is it not a story?” He asked. “Half of what you wrote is pure fiction.”

Evelyn resisted the urge to look back at what she had wrote. Instead, she held his gaze. Her red lips curved into a scowl. “It is not fiction. You would know, she was your teacher to.”

It was true that Evelyne knew Louis far before they ever began working for the same newspaper. The went to school together, had mutual friends, and shared the same fifth grade class—with Mrs. Smint as their teacher.

Louis pulled a rolling chair from his cubicle and sat on it backwards, his legs stretching past hers. Closer, she could smell the mint in his breath, a smell she hated. It was the opposite of subtle. Loud, flashy, and so very Louis.

“So, she was a ‘vibrant soul’ who ‘loved children’ and ‘spent all ninety years of her life helping others’?”

Evelyne bit the bottom of her lip, smudging the lipstick with her teeth. “Everyone exaggerates writing these. I’m only bringing out what the old woman was beyond her bitter skin.”

And bitter the woman truly was. She recalled that Mrs. Smint once slapped Louis silly with a yard stick for throwing paper wads at Evelyne, which resulted in only brief fondness before she also slapped Evelyne for provoking him. But still, part of the work was making even the awfullest of dead people flush with color they lacked while living.

“Well” Louis said. “We can all only hope to live as long as Mrs. Smint did.”

“You won’t if you keep smoking those things.” She nodded her head head towards a pack of cigarettes peeking out of the pockets of his slacks.

Louis chuckled, shaking his head so that his black mass of hair covered his face.

“If I died, you wouldn’t have to put up with me though.”

She liked putting up with him better than not having him around at all. The office was to dull without his constant bicker. Instead of revealing that, she said “and what peace that would bring.”

“I suppose I’ll grant you momentary peace then.” Louis rolled his chair back into the office, and a moment later she heard him typing.

She went back to writing the obituary, hoping it would be her last for the day.

Five years later

***

Evelyne is writing her final obituary. Her things are all packed up into two boxes, one with her picture frames and pencils, and another with his stuff.

𝙻𝚘𝚞𝚒𝚜 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚛, 𝟸𝟻, 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙹𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢. 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝, 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚐 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍.

Not a word of it is a lie, just as Louise would have wanted.

Evelyne tears the paper out and passes it to her editor, a girl named Fran who is rather new.

“Evelyne” Fran sighs. “We will miss you. And I’m so sorry about Louise.”

Evelyne smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You know, we always use to fight like an old married couple. I suppose those times made up for the years we won’t have.”

“And why did you fight?” Fran asks. “I’m sorry if that’s very direct, I’m just curious.”

Evelyne opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Years worth of bickering, and for what?

“I have forgotten.”