She picked one of the perfumed fruits off the tree, it’s rough skin still feeling warm in her hands, whilst she thought about the day’s events.
Mariola was dead. She’d died from malodorous fumes from her husbands corpse. He had died a few weeks ago but she refused to allow them to take his body away, fearing that they would steal his beautiful golden teeth.
She was sad. Uncommonly so. Normally a death did not affect her such as this, having experienced such a great deal of them. Like her mother, and her grandmother before her, and perhaps her great grandmother before that, she had the knack for eternal youth. At 21 she no longer aged, but merely persisted.
Mariola was one of the girls she attended school with at the small chapel that over looked over the village. She supposed that all the nuns that taught her were dead also, but Mariola was the last of her school friends.
She took a bite of the fruit and juice dribbled down her chin.
They found her the next morning and buried her next to her mother, grandmother and great grandmother at the small chapel that overlooked the village.