I poked a head into the room beside hers and smiled despite myself. There was anotherGhostbusternotice tacked to the wall there, too. I should have known that Chiara would think of everything.
I continued to ramble the house. Nighttime was often difficult.
The world slept.
And I did not.
Even the most mundane rat had a need for sleep and food. But I was outside all that.
Night could be desperately lonely. It so clearly highlighted the differences between myself and other sleep-needing humans.
Tonight was particularly bad. Emotions rushed through me so quickly, I struggled to label them.
Restlessness. Anxiety. Frustration. Discouragement.
So many things I didn’t want to sense and nothing that I did—touch, taste, smell.
Chiara’s petal-soft cheek. Her fine-boned hand. The smell of her freshly-washed hair.
Some days I thought I would give up my very existence for a mere fifteen minutes of fully-present sensation.
Eventually, I had todosomething with all this . . .feeling.
I paused beside a tufted velvet chair in the large entryway. Pushing my right index finger into solidity, I touched the velvet. Agony flared. But even through the burning pain, the soft skitter of the velvet against my fingertip sent a shiver of sensation up my phantom arm. Is this what Chiara’s cheek would feel like? Soft and velvety?
As usual, I couldn’t hold the physicality for long. The strain was too great, the pain too terrible. My finger bounced back into its ghostly state, becoming even more faded than the rest of me.
So, of course, like a complete lunatic, I stood next to the chair for at least an hour, touching the velvet over and over.
Push. Pain. Bounce.
Repeat.
I experimented with my left index finger. And my right pinkie.
It was slow progress, but I refused to become discouraged. Progress was better than stasis.
In all honestly,anythingwas better than stasis.
Though at the rate I was going, it would take a decade or two before I could turn my entire body solid for just a few seconds. But a few seconds of corporeality . . . I wouldn’t waste them doing anything other than kissing Chiara D’Angelo.
Chiara in my arms, soft and willing, the soft puff of her breath against my lips—
I instantly crushed the mental image.
I might adore her, but I knew the sentiment was not returned. Chiara engaged with me, thank goodness, but that simply meant she wasn’t entirely indifferent. She had never given any indication that she cared for me in a romantic way.
An exchange of passionate kisses was not in the cards for us.
I contemplated trying to expand my corporeality to more than a finger—maybe a whole thumb—but a wave of sudden exhaustion washed over me. My ghost knees felt weak.
Huh.
Maybe Icouldget tired.
But if I could get tired, how would I rejuvenate? Did I need to eat? Maybe I would rest for a bit and then start practicing making my mouth solid.
To that end, I sank into the chair in the entry hallway.
