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The Black Lotus a short story by Simon Ings We buried Rudy this morning. It was drizzling: the sky was uniformly leaden. When the vicar invited Rudy's mother to look at the flowers, Tina Strossner edged forward to the lip of the grave and peered short-sightedly at the daffodils some children had thrown upon the coffin. Then, out the corner of her eye, she noticed the bouquets, ready to lay upon the grave, and she realised that these were the flowers she was supposed to be admiring. She stepped towards them and her foot slipped on the edge of the grave. Soil fell with a hollow sound upon the coffin. One cannot help but remember such moments. Long after the eulogies have faded, countless trivial incidents remain. We uncover them again by accident, and with a twinge of embarrassment, as one might remove a crumpled paper poppy from a winter overcoat. After the service Tina came over to me, to thank me for being here. "Sorry I was late," I said. "The train was cancelled." "How are you getting back?"
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