What am I doing tonight?

He sat oddly on the barstool,
Cracked brown plastic and metal,
And asked me.
What am I doing tonight?

He was drunk; he didn't know.
I could forgive him for that.
Maybe. Maybe not.

So what am I doing tonight?

I wiped a glass clean,
Tossed the towel somewhere.
Pushed my hair back.
Burying my husband.

He blinked.
Looked closer at me,
Saw no tears.
My husband?

Yes, my husband.
No love lost, no hurt feelings.
Just a fact of life.

He digests that.
Pauses for another sip.
Whiskey, I think,
Or scotch.
When did he die?

Well, that's the thing.
He's not dead yet.