Marge paced the length of the singlewide while she waited on Ernest, wondering what could possibly be taking him so long.
“I’m sure you look fine, Ernest, it’s not like the guest of honor will even see you.”
Even so, Marge brushed at her slacks, tugged at her blazer, uncomfortable in the dressiest outfit she owned. “Ernest, don’t make us late for my mother’s damn funeral!”
His suit jacket stretched tight, Ernest emerged and took Marge’s hands in his own, rough scrubbed and smelling of Boraxo, and asked if she were ready.
“My mother and I’ll never come clean,” she wept, while Ernest, patient and steady, held her tight.
The word this week from Denise is “scrub“, and we are charged with using that word in a Six Sentence Story. Go to GirlieOntheEdge to leave your story and to read more. These characters may be known to you; there was an earlier funeral scene HERE and they have their own page HERE.