Flash Fiction #2

Requiem mass. I’m still overcome with the shock of the bereaved.
We used to call him “Big Guy”, because of his presence when he entered a room. He was only five-eleven. And he was good; played by the rules.
He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and, too often, he’d tell me: smokers are liable to die young.
He was only thirty-five.

@dk_stan

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