The cemetery was shrouded in fog, moving sheets of white billowing over the manicured trees as the Pastor's timbered voice read from the Bible.

Very few people attended Barbra's funeral. Only a scattering of old friends and a few ex-employees from Mocha Daze stared solemnly forward as her casket was lowered into the ground.

I pretended to cry, thinking my show of emotion would cement any questions of my loss and pain. Of course, I thought my request of donations in lew of flowers to a local Stop the Violence Foundation was another good trick to ward off any suspicions. I would become no Lyle or Eric Menendez, nor an OJ. The murder of my wife had come off without a single hitch. No pesky policemen were asking questions and no grieving relatives were asking for any belongings. It was running smoothly.

Her son Peter watched me from the other side of the grave, eyes filled with real tears. He glanced away every time I looked at him. Was it the shame of us being together that now proved too much for him to bear? Or did he want me as much I wanted him and the fact of us being alone now-- to be free to explore our feelings-- was scaring him?

As the service concluded, I approached him.

"How are you doing?" I asked.

He stared me down, eyes full of contempt-- full of rage-- and simply walked away.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Away, from all of this bullshit. Steve...I don't want to see you again." And with that he crossed to his car.

Awfully bitchy, I thought. But he did have a nice ass.

*****

The gay bar was crowded. Hell, it was Friday, of course it would be busy. All of these men, looking for a connection-- searching for love-- but taking sex instead. I ordered my third beer in an hour and I could feel myself getting too neat-- too precise-- acting as if I wasn't drunk. Which was a clear sign that I was plastered.

I saw this hot guy across the room with a goatee, his muscles protruding nicely from inside his muscle tee. I walked forward, realizing if he asked, "What did you do today?" that I couldn't respond, "I buried my wife that I had murdered a few days ago. Can I buy you a beer?"

"How's it going?" I asked. He stared me up and down, checking me out. I don't know what it was because, I have to admit, I looked good. I had been going to the gym, I was pumped up, and knew I was a catch.

But it was almost as if he could see right through me. He simply smiled and moved to another part of the bar. Well, screw you, too.

I walked to the area by the pool table, leaning against the wall, watching a hustler play pool with a dyke. I could always pay for sex tonight, I thought. At least I could then tell him the truth-- that I was a murderer-- and there would be nothing he could do. Jesus, did I want to confess? Or simply share with a giggle that I had done something very, very naughty and had gotten away with it.

I ordered another beer and a tequila shot. And then another tequila shot. I even bought this older man at the end of the bar a tequila shot. Hey, HE would like me.

He thanked me but then ignored me. Was there a conspiracy here or did I look like the drunk groveling little shit that I was?

It was last call and I ordered a triple of Cuervo Gold. The bartender sized me up.

"You driving?" he asked.

I nodded no. "Cabbing it." He stared me down. I think he could tell I was lying but he gave it to me anyway.

The last half hour felt like 3 minutes and soon I found myself struggling to walk down the West Hollywood sidewalk, after hours. A group of Asian teenagers hung out by The Greenery, the local coffee shop, staring at me and giggling. Go to hell, you effeminate little pretty boys.

As I turned up the street, I looked for my car, and realized it was gone. The sign said it was preferential resident parking only, but who tows in Los Angeles? West goddamn Hollywood does.

Too drunk to deal, I fell into a nearby patch of ivy, the entire plant shifting and spinning. I felt alone. Sick and alone. Would I feel this way the rest of my life?

I prayed to God for forgiveness as I passed out.