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Count seven tombstones to the left, and then, five tombstones up. A pair of dark eyes observed him from behind a paperback book. Her attire, entirely black, matched fingernails, eye shadow and hair.
Sunglasses propped at the end of his nose, Michael averted his eyes from the woman's morbid curiosity. In his hands, he held an iPod. The screen played The Fallen's next video,
Pieces of Rapture. The final cut looked awesome. He switched it off, tugged the earbuds from his ears, and tucked the slim white player into his back pocket.
"What do you think?" he said as he squatted before a granite tombstone that glittered with chunks of mica. "Not bad for a small town Minnesota boy, eh?"
The graveyard was quiet this evening, the humidity of summer pushing away spring with a burst of warm wind through Michael's hair. Three hundred twenty seven tombstones were arrayed around him. Two rusted shovels leaned against the chain link fence to the north. One brick ...
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