Father Eusebio Diaz stood at the entrance of Saint Augustine Church on the corner of Miller and San Amaro Drive, exasperation darkening his face like storm cloud. He paced between the pews, tapped his foot, crossed his arms, uncrossed them, checked his watch, adjusted his cassock, and let out the Mother of All Frustrated Sighs.
“Where in Christ’s name is this woman?” he cried out.
Viviana “Vivi” Castillo passed away the previous week, aged 27, from a margarita-miniature schnauzer-hair tie-rogue flamethrower-related accident on which her Miami Herald obituary chose not to provide explanatory details. The only expounding account printed in said periodical was that, “She expired as she lived: in a blazing halo of inebriated exuberance.”
Castillo’s remains were dutifully poured into an urn (cremation was provided gratis by the manner of her death), the funeral arraignments made, and her friends and family informed of its location, date, and time. Tellingly, her chronographic habits affected her loved ones even after shedding her mortal coil.
“Classic Vivi,” explained Cristina Aguirre, Castillo’s cousin. “She’d tell everyone to meet her at STORY, or Racket, or Tap 42 and then arrive three hours later with some rando dude in tow, if it all. She was the queen of ghosting.”
Aguirre paused to giggle her unintended pun.
“Anyway,” she continued. “We’ll be lucky if she shows at all.”
Back at Saint Augustine, Father Diaz continued to fume.
“I have a wedding in half an hour,” he exclaimed. “But worst of all, I called her parents, best friends, and workmates. They all said they were five minutes away.”
He gestured at the empty church.
“That was an hour ago!”
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