Taste was one of those things that was meant to be very personal, and yet everyone seemed to recognise bad taste.

The joke may have been ill-timed, but she maintained that it wasn't in "bad taste" - soon finding herself in the minority (one, in fact).

Fine. Fine, fine, fine - he would've laughed, if he'd been there. Then again, him not being there was the entire point.

He would've laughed at that, too.

It was a nice, warm day, and that was ridiculous - funerals were meant to be full of rain and the dark and thunder and the world was meant to be mirroring the misery the mourners felt.

Typical him. She knelt down by the graveside - let the wake continue without her, she clearly wasn't welcome there. She ran her fingers over the freshly engraved headstone.

He was the only one who'd understood her, really, the only one who would give her the wry smile when she made her dark joke.

"And now you're gone. You've buggered off and left me. You bastard." She smiled sadly, tracing the letters. "Come back. You'd be a great zombie."

She was crying again, but she could hear laughter on the wind.