A fond farewell

I recently dropped a friend home after a night out and followed her inside to pick up some books I’d lent her a few weeks earlier. Entering the house through the garage, we discovered her father slumped on the couch in his dressing gown, cradling an empty wine bottle in his hand and staring mournfully at the wall.

“Jesus,” my friend said, “What the hell happened?”

“It’s Costa,” her dad whispered, blowing his nose.

“Who?”

“The ironing man. He’s dead.”

“Oh my god!” my friend lamented, “What the fuck am I going to wear to work on Monday?”