Page 40 of The Man I Hate

Two days later, he was dead.

She never got to say, “I love you” or “goodbye.”

The daughter told stories about her father dancing in a ballet competition with her. In closing the segment, the newscaster explained that the deceased had worked a week prior to his illness as a DJ at a local bar. The venue was filled with college youth on spring break. Although no one knew for certain, it was expected the he contracted the virus then.

My eyes welled with tears. It was more than I could take.

Witnessing the family express how the events unfolded gave confirmation to the severity of the disease, the necessity of the stay at home order, and the importance of social distancing and proper hygiene.

While I wallowed in sorrow, the familiar drone of Braxton’s SUV caused me to look up. Pissed off about the dead DJ, disappointed with Braxton in general, and filled with mimosa-induced courage, I rushed to the window just in time to see him get out of the vehicle.

He was wearing a pair of dark washed blue jeans, a black tee-shirt that clung to him like a coat of paint, and leather dress shoes. It was the only time I’d seen him wearing something other than a suit, and it was the first time I’d caught a glimpse of his tattooed biceps.

In a tattoo fueled swoon, I sank into the sofa, nearly spilling my mimosa in the process. Following a quick recovery, I took a drink of the sweet nectar and stole another glance at my promiscuous neighbor.

Without thinking, I rapped my knuckles against the glass.

In the midst of unlocking the front door, he glanced over his shoulder.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I flipped him the bird.

He shook his head as if disgusted with my antics and walked inside.

We hadn’t spoken since the hate fuck debacle. I’d never been so embarrassed—or pissed off—in my life. I wondered what Braxton thought about the incident, and why he hadn’t taken time to apologize, check on me, or at least say something—even if it wasn’t related to the underdressed twenty-two-year-old’s home invasion.

I finished my mimosa and crawled off the couch.

The news flashed to the head of the CDC, who was supposed to give an update on the rapidly growing rate of infection.

Normally they gave updates in the late afternoon.

I glanced at my watch. It was four o’clock. Shocked at how the day had managed to escape me, I glanced around the living room.

Magazines that I’d had delivered with my grocery orders—most of which couldn’t keep my interest for longer than ten minutes—were scattered about the floor like steppingstones. A weeks’ worth of dirty champagne and wine glasses covered every inch of available table space. A dirty pair of sweats was draped over the back of an oversized chair.

The living room looked like an underaged house party ten minutes after the cops showed up.

I lifted my arm and sniffed my arm pit.

I smelled like a wet goat.

My life had come unraveled at the seams. In the foreseeable future, I doubted things would get much better. Frustrated with the situation—and with myself—I finished my drink, picked up the living room, and took a shower.

Upon returning to the living room, I peered through the window, toward the salmon-colored Mediterranean home across the street.

Short of the two additional cars parked in front of the home, everything looked the same.

I opened the front door and poked my head outside. An eerie silence enveloped me. The noise from the freeway was absent. In fact, the typical noise from traffic—in general—was non-existent.

The only sound was that of me, breathing. I peered to the left.

Nothing.

I peered to the right. Two doors down from the Mediterranean home, an elderly woman was pruning one of her bushes. The ground around her was peppered with the trimmings from her afternoon’s work.

She was tall for a woman and had a petite build. Her curly hair was cut short. The frosty white color gave hint from afar that she was high on the list of people who were “at risk.” Realizing that fact made me sad.

Wearing a pair of bright red pants and a lemon-colored short sleeved top, she looked like she was dressed for a night out with her husband.