The funeral parlor was dimly lit and filled with the obnoxious scents of flowers and embalming treatments. I was wearing an old suit that Sally had forced me into, with a faded checkered tie. I told myself determinedly that I would do this, but I my confidence was dropping with every step I took to the Viewing Room. When we stood in the doorway, Sally, my wife, clutching my arm with a sense of false aristocracy. I realized the coffin was open. Any sense of bravado instantly left me.
"I have to go," I croaked, soft enough so only she could hear. I barely caught a glimpse of the mingled look of concern and disapproval on her face before I left. Back out in the car, I leaned against the cold window, the guilt overwhelming. I thought to myself, coward...pathetic, but a memory overpowered them.
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