A redhead walks into a bar . . .

 . . . she scans the joint, looking for faces she came here for. Heart racing, eyes flashing, breath shortening, steps quickening. She darts through the bar, glancing back and forth at tables, booths, breath sucks in with eyes that stare back. She finally sees a face that lights up in a smile. Relief. She slide onto a stool, apologizes for being late—had to let Rocco out, tripped and fell in a puddle, back into the house to change clothes, corral Rocco back into the house, you know the usual stuff, but thank you so much for the phone call, for inviting me out, so great to see you guys again, it's been forever . . .

Order beers, two for one. Her lucky night. No sooner does the foam hit the lips when a stranger appears at the end of the table. "What the hell! Why didn't you guys tell me you were bringin' a gorgeous redhead with you! Where you been keeping her!" Beer almost shoots through the nose. He's clueless. He continues. "I love redheads! L-O-V-E love em! You know," his voice lowers, he looks to the left and then to the right, "I'm kind of a big deal in this joint." Then the direct eye stare. She gives a smile that is more like a sneer. He has crooked teeth. Her husband had crooked teeth, but they were beautifully, endearingly crooked. Not lecherously, snarling crooked. He doesn't translate her sneer into, "Shut the fuck up," and continues. TMI. How much money he makes, how the woman he's with isn't really his woman, just a friend. Suddenly, he asks to see her hand. Hand? What the hell? Oh, my left hand, she realizes. Thank god, this'll shut him up. She slides her left hand out from under the table and flicks it toward him. "Of course you're married! The cute ones always are!" He doesn't know that the band on her left thumb is her dead husband's band, but she has a strong desire to tell him this. "Why didn't you guys tell me this before I wasted my time?" He slaps Pete on the shoulder. But he doesn't stop there. She doesn't hear anything more, just mentally begging her friends to not out her, please don't tell him my husband is dead, that I'm widowed, anything even remotely close to that. Tell him to get the fuck lost, give her breathing room, the air is getting viscous. . .

"So, even though you're married, I still think you're good lookin', and maybe—" even though your married. . . at least someone knows this, even though he doesn't even know what he is saying . . . He leans across the table, slides a beer out of the way, drunk watery eyes trying to find her face. Damn the friends who can't read her mind and come to her rescue. "Listen, asshole," she finally spits. "Ring or no ring, you'd never stand a chance." She turns her attention to her beer, friends burst into surprised laughter, asshole steps back, truly shocked "Hell, yeah I would," he sneers, before slinking away.


Few weeks back, my sister ran into an old friend from high school . . . a loose connection to Bob's family, St. James, I don't quite recall the details. Jill mentions Bob and me, friend confirms she knew we were married, Jill says Bob died in May, friend is surprised, shares a few sweet memories of Bob—he was so handsome, had such sexy bedroom eyes, she says. . . "How's your sister doing? Is she dating yet? Remarried?" My sister almost choked on her own tongue. "ummm. . .wow. . . not sure how to answer that. . . you know he just died, right?" In everyone else's mind but mine, it's ancient history.


Not long ago (which could mean two days or two years in my world), met a friend for pizza and beers; known him for years, used to be a client of mine, until he finally figured out he could shave his own near-bald head for free, instead of paying me 30 bucks every two weeks. . . Bob even knew of him, though they had never met. Perpetual bachelor, enlisted on every online dating service known to humankind. . .  an over-all good person, kind heart, sensitive, a social worker and a "good listener," but holy hell, every time I see/hear from him, he's dating a new woman. I tease him that he changes women more often than he changes underwear, and that his dating escapades serve no purpose for me other than to convince me to get another dog. "But what about your physical needs," he pleads, as though I'm dying  . . . I stab him repeatedly with my eyes. . .

Short of wearing a sandwich board, or hammering heads with a sledgehammer, how do I tell everyone that even though my husband is dead, I am still very much married . . .