“Staring is most unbecoming, whether I’m a ghost or not.”
My cheeks must be flaming red as I step toward her with my hand raised in surrender. “I apologize. I truly wasn’t staring at you because you are a ghost.” I scratch behind my head and glance away for a moment. “I’m saying this wrong. It’s just, well, you’re beautiful. I was admiring your freckles. I apologize for staring.” I look back at her, her smile brighter than ever before.
“Apology accepted.” She looks around my room and begins to snoop at all my belongings, from opening a drawer to tilting her head at the butterflies I have framed. “I am well accustomed to individuals being struck with awe by my appearance. Very few have had the privilege of seeing my corporeal form, though I do understand that they have found it most shocking. But even so, I remain a lady.”
She looks over her shoulder at me as she floats up the shelves along the wall behind my bed that hold multiple records, books, and more records. She winks as her fingers flick through the record collection I brought from home. I make my way near her as she snags a record. The cover is of 5 girls in renaissance-inspired gowns in a portrait above a fireplace with flowers and candles—a favorite.
“Prelude to Ecstasy by The Last Dinner Party,” I supply as she looks at the album cover.
I hold my hand out for the album as she floats down softly and places it in my hands. They shake subtly as I pull the record out of its sleeve and place it on top of the mat on the windowsill next to my bed. I set the vinyl on the platter and switch the record player on. Placing thestylus on the corner of the album, classical music softly radiates into the room around us.
I turn quickly to watch her reaction as she places her hand on her chest, and her eyes glaze over as she stares off, listening to the music.
“It’s classical,” she whispers and looks at me with awe.
I smile and bite my bottom lip as I nod. I’ve always loved classical music, more specifically music from the early 1900s. It’s brought me a peace far greater than the more contemporary music. This record is one of the few bands that scratches that musical itch.
After a minute, it switches to the next track, and the lead singer’s voice flows through the speakers. “It’s modern, but inspired by elegance. Baroque-pop, you could say, would be the genre.”
She nods as she listens on. “I have come across many devices that play an array of melodies, but this melody.. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful,” she softly states.
I step over to my desk and spin the chair around, offering it to her. The faintest blush betrays her composure. I grin as I walk across from her, leaning against the foot of my bed. I cross my arms and legs as I observe her listening to my favorite album. Watching her enjoy its beauty has my pulse racing, heat floods my system, one that has me undeniably recognizing that I am attracted to the dead.I’m so fucking screwed.
A few more tracks play as we relax in comfortable silence. I continue to get lost in her beauty, admiring her elegance as she sits with perfect posture, slightly swaying along to the beat. She radiates absolute perfection. All the while, I find myself desiring any opportunity to watch her get messy, to let that flawless presentation smudge with my darkness. The record clicks as we complete side one, and I startle, shocked that so many minutes have passed that I have just stared at her.
I push off the bed and flip the record over, starting the other side. I turn back toward Milly. “How–” I stop myself, trying to figure out how to start small talk with a ghost who's clearly from a differenttime.
“Don’t worry, you’ve been most kind, allowing me to savor these melodies in silence. Are you curious as to how I came to be this…” she lifts her hands up and down her body, “this apparition?”
I lean back against the bed, my palms flat against the comforter as I chuckle. “I was going to ask how you were doing, but I’m not the best at small talk.” I shrug, finding comfort in her openness.
She crosses her legs at the ankles and places her hands in her lap. She lifts a brow at me. “I’m certain that’s the very question you meant to ask me,” she says as she suddenly disappears from the seat.
I shoot up straight and look around, the familiar panic of her disappearing clutching me in its vicious grasp. I step toward the chair when she suddenly appears in front of me with her finger pushing my chin up to make eye contact with her.
“I’ve been about for a good long while. It’s well, alright. I know, even if you did not ask me outright, surely it was on your mind.”
I swallow as her finger traces along my jawline before dropping to her side. She turns her head and resumes a small pace around my dorm, looking at the different objects. “Well, let’s start with the first question then. How are you doing?” I ask. She halts her steps and doesn’t turn toward me.
“It’s been quite a while since someone took the moment to ask how I am.” She looks over her shoulder at me through the parts of her red curls and smiles. “I’m well now that I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. How do you do?”
I smile back at her and glance at my socks. “I’m doing really well myself.” I look up at her, lost in the moment again as she gazes into my eyes.
“Now, for the underlying question, I presume?”
I step toward her, but stop a few feet away. “We don’t have to talk about that. It’s a bit morbid to talk about death. How about we just… get to know one another.”
She cocks her head to the side, absorbing my words. “You don’twant anything from me? No magic? No disappearances or tricks up the sleeve? You just wish to know me?” I nod as I take a few more steps toward her.
I lift my hand up and watch her visibly tense as my hand comes close to her face. She flinches slightly, and I halt. I look into her eyes, seeing flashes of past traumas when she nods after a moment passes, trusting my hand.
I move my fingers into the softness of her curls, running the strands between my pointer finger and thumb. Her hair is so soft. I am so close to her, I cansmellher. She smells of cinnamon, warm and welcoming. I hook a piece behind her ear and look up at her.
“Yeah, I just want to know more about you. Tell me, Milly, what’s your favorite song?”
She leans into my hand as I let my fingers linger in her hair, as she softly answers, “In The Still of the Night by The Five Satins.”I’ve never felt anything feel so right.
I nod, smiling. “A classic, surprising. But still a great choice.”
