"She's lying upstairs, God rest her soul," whispers the woman at the door. "Please do go up."
On by one, they file up the narrow staircase, enter the shabby bedroom, where the picture of the Blessed Virgin takes pride of place above the bed. The faded curtains are drawn (of course), and the room is lit by a single candle, whose light flickers pale shadows on the walls.
"Ah! Doesn't she look beautiful?" they murmur, as they stand by the open coffin. And certainly she looks very peaceful, lying there in her white gown, a rosary loosely threaded through her fingers. A woman stifles a sob; another stoops to kiss the pale forehead; someone places a single pink rosebud on the still bosom.
"Cut!" says the director. "Coffee break!"
The corpse sits up in her coffin. "Mine's white," she says. "Two sugars."
(An antidote to my last.)