It's not that I haven't thought about hosting a large party. In fact, I have already drawn up the guest list in my mind. With relatives, with friends, with my same-sex lovers, I face the list and quietly say goodbye to them one by one in my heart.
I know they'll be sad for a while after I die, of course, only for a while.
Not so with my wife, Simone, who would have recovered the day after my death, dressed in well-textured, well-tailored clothes, and attended my funeral with exquisite makeup. Then, she will arrange all my relics, take on the operation of the gallery, and be thoughtful and impeccable.
Yes, Simeone never disappoints me.
She's never been a woman who doesn't speak her mind. When she has doubts, anger, and sadness, she can't hide for even a second, even at a banquet to see her future in-laws, at a lively party. As long as Simeone sees the slightest gap between us, she will grab me immediately and ask to understand.
She was never a ruthless woman. She gave up her young body, her romantic trip to Europe, she gave up on me. Simone took my hand, toasted me, helped me touch up my makeup, put on the red dress I bought her, danced with me, pushed that needle into my body for me...
The candles flickered, the music played, and Simone and I danced. Our dance moves across the living room, across the stairs, across the bedroom, we stop in every corner of the house, reminiscing about all the time we spent together, light and powerful, and seamless. Until I lay down gently on our bed, with only my Simone in sight, she was a big party. After the dance is over, take a step. But I know that Simone's party will never end...
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