42.4 cm

The sharp, jagged line of ink on Mr L.'s right forearm did a poor job of hiding the scars. Esther tucked down the sleeve of the dress shirt over the pale, clammy skin. It came up short by just half a centimeter. From her position she could see the little edges peek out, no matter how she positioned it. The scars were old, decades possibly. Judging by the ink though, Esther was guessing these were remnants of a troubled late twenties or early thirties. They had been placed with too little care about who might see. She'd seen enough of these, as well as enough attempts to cover them up. In these cases, it often helped to apply some makeup. It could be thick as paint, considering the body wasn't going to move much anyways. The tattoo was in the way though. Esther tugged on the sleeve once again, holding it in place this time. It would register as slightly too long, but most people probably wouldn't look as closely. It was just a sleeve, after all. Esther took the measuring tape from the rolling tray beside her and set one end against Mr. L.'s shoulder. 42.4cm. She noted it down on her palm, underneath the other to-do items and got her coat to close up shop for the day.

The cold November rain had been wearing down on the street in front Esther's shop front. Hers had been the only mortician's in town for a while, long before she took over the business. She locked the door behind her, twice, and checked the time. It was just past rush hour, which left her just enough to strike the items from her palm. Groceries first, then flowers, then a white men's dress shirt, medium fit, with 42.4 cm, shoulder to cuff, or at least that length, and a roll of white thread.

Esther now spent most of her days in the cellars of the mortuary. Her evenings in the small living space above the shop floor only really held a bedroom and kitchen. Dinner was usually prepared and eaten in a haze, her head was full of the preparations to be done the following day. After her evening routine, she took an ink marker, found the excess length of the sleeves and shortened them. 42.4 cm. She thought back to the expression the person behind the register had given her when she had bought it. It must be odd, she thought, to suddenly know a personal detail about somebody in that way. This was a semi-regular occurrence, so perhaps they would get used to the idea eventually. Without knowing the name or face of her patient, they knew their size, and the clothes they were going to be buried in in the next few days. Mr. L. had been with her for just under two days, after having concluded what seemed like a fulfilling life from the outside. Esther hadn't known him before he had arrived in her shop. From what Esther had heard about the service, it was going to be visited by plenty of family and friends, some of which she had met during these last two days. Esther could usually tell which visitor belonged to which patient, once she'd spent a few hours with the the patient on her own. It wasn't just the clothes, or the ambient smell of perfumes that lingered around people, even days after they had gone their separate ways.

Stitching fabric was different than stitching skin. Even though Esther rarely had to use the smaller set of needles, since most of her sutures were going to be covered by clothes, she liked to do so wherever she could. They were neater on the skin, less visible. When her patients came in, they were strangers. Perhaps Esther had seen them pass by the shop window once or twice, and then promptly forgotten their face. When they left, Esther knew them very well. She'd never delude herself to think of them of friends or acquaintances, but she would have spent enough time with the body to read its history off the marks on the skin, the hints of past injuries, curvatures of spines, the callouses from jobs and hobbies. Mr. L. had worked with his hands, often bending down and straining his back and shoulders. The way his joints moved told her that he was used to carrying heavy things, but that his body had not been ruined by it. There were callouses on his palms and the sides of his hands, several marks on his fingers, signifying injuries that were just severe enough to merit having been looked at, along with places at which the fingerprints had been filed off, probably through the regular use of sand-paper. Mr. L. had probably worked with wood for a living. Not construction, perhaps carpentry, though he was likely past retirement age already.

The sleeves of the shirt now covered the tattoo on the forearm exactly. With that, Mr. L. was just about ready to leave. He'd been wearing a golden ring, polished to a shine, when he had come in. Yet, it had always been what Esther assumed were children of his. They seemed nice, if slightly uncomfortable in the shop floor. Esther certainly had sympathy with her guests about not wanting to spend too much time there. She had known some mortuaries to display coffins that were on sale, which she thought was maybe a bit tactless. Her foyer was instead slightly sterile. She switched out the flowers with those she had bought the previous evening. She had hoped that they would lighten the mood in the room just the slightest bit, but there was a real possibility that it only stressed the concepts she was trying to soften. Esther only noticed after Mr. L. was out the door, that she had forgotten to charge them for the shirt. It was just as well, she thought. Mr. L. could consider it a goodbye gift.