Black lipstick, black eyeshadow.
Black dye in her hair.
Everything she wore was black.
She looked good in black.
She even wore black to her three weddings.
And the three funerals for her late husbands.
Her furniture was white, with white wall-to-wall carpet.
She stood out like a burnt pixel on a television screen, a clot of hair in a bathtub.
She took three black betties and went to sleep.
The next day. I found her in the tub.
The coroner came and laid a white sheet over her.
“No,” I said. “Zip her up in a black body bag.”