Mohair

Pulling the fibers out of my thin cardigan, twisting many, ten, three strands of hair, I realize I’ve never been more confused. I am so confused about men and how they treat their families after divorce that I involuntarily walk myself down the street and straight into my neighborhood bar.

The windows in this bar are lines of televisions on seventy-year old wood panelled walls. Neon signs. A cigarette machine.

I plop my skeleton, meat, liquids, organs and ass on the barstool and twist the mohair in my fingers as I wait for the bartender to quit breaking change rolls into the cash register.

I never really was a drinker. I’d go months without having a glass of wine or having a baby in my stomach. I’ve been a wild woman. A wild woman who can’t believe the audacity of most men. If it isn’t sex, it’s war.

I laugh.

"That’s nice. You laughing to yourself without a phone out.”

I turn to my right and see, “That’s nice…” is a man in his late thirties. He has long brown hair, too much energy and I am not in the mood. Sorry, my guy.

I nod as I look away and decide to move to a table.

”We’re all dead.”

Well, there’s something. I pull two more strands of red mohair from my sweater and begin thickening the ring in my fingers.

I look at the man, “Dead, dead?”

”We’re all dead. We all died during covid and now? Now we are in hell.”

Involuntarily, opening my mouth and shutting it, I say nothing. I’m leaving.

“Sorry,” The man says, “You weren’t wearing a ring. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

I push the back door open. I feel the dry laundry dryer heat and bright light of Los Angeles hit me in the face. The hot wind blows my hair back dramatically as I begin my walk home.

I slide the red mohair ring up my wedding finger.

He’s probably right.