“Well, you never tried before, did you?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer that. Cosmo’s tube of lipstick sat on the drafting table in the same spot it had occupied for the past three days. That the curtain ring he’d found in the tub was a physical object made sense… he supposed. It was a part of the apartment. But why lipstick belonging to a ghost was just as real and solid and didn’t disappear along with Cosmo was perplexing. Shouldn’t it be just as ghostly? Which led him to a strange thought he still wasn’t sure what to do with: after the bathroom mirror shattered, he’d thrown out a handful of makeup and cosmetics that didn’t belong to him. He’d presumed they were his ex-girlfriend’s, even though they didn’t seem like Courtney’s style. But what if they were Cosmo’s? He could certainly picture Cosmo wearing something as daring as chartreuse eyeshadow. Maybe those cosmetics and the lipstick now sitting on the drafting table had always been here, overlooked when Micah moved in and something Cosmo still liked to use even in death.
He felt bad for throwing the others out.
Sketches of the ghost hung on the wall in various poses, showcasing his angular jaw, his halo of dark curls, his sweater hanging off his shoulder.
The messages and kiss print had disappeared from the mirror; only Micah’s half of the conversation remained. The recording on his phone was definitive proof, but if he shared it with people he knew or posted it on the internet for it to be sensationalized, then it would no longer be an experience he got to keep all to himself. Right now it was something intimate just between him and Cosmo. And, well, this random operator, who he could speak freely to and then never hear from again.
She said something into his earpiece.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, ‘he’s cute, huh?’ Wish I was haunted by a flirty young thing who left kisses on my mirror.”
“Do you think he was flirting?” Micah wasn’t sure why he was even asking. Cosmo was dead, and Micah had scared him off anyway.
“Well, duh, honey. He’s been starved for affection for years since his tragic death, and he latched onto you because you’re kind and handsome and he gets to watch you walk around your apartment in your boxers.”
This was a mistake. The operator was turning this conversation into her own personal fan fiction. “You’ve got it all wrong. I wear briefs.”
“Bet you have a six pack.”
He glanced at his soft gut. She’d described herself for her sketch, but she probably didn’t want the same amount of truth from him. “I don’t think he’s going to come back. Thought I’d be happy about that, but…”
But he couldn’t get Cosmo out of his head.
Cosmo was a person – or had been – who’d intruded into Micah’s studio. The ghost’s appearance hadn’t brought the same fight-or-flight response that normally came with someone walking into Micah’s place, though. Which was confounding, because Cosmo could manipulate objects and had at least a partially solid body. He could hurt Micah just as easily as a mortal intruder. Easier, even. But for some reason, Micah wasn’t afraid.
“Get a… What are those things called?” the operator said. “The board game with letters and a little pointer that the ghost controls?”
“Ouija board. The pointer is called a planchette. But I don’t see how that would be any different than communicating via mirror. He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Write him an apology. Or get him some flowers. Do guys buy other guys flowers? Or play the music he likes.”
Micah groaned. He wasnotsummoning Cosmo back with Soft Cell. “I’m thirty-eight. Too old to be buying a twenty-seven-year-old flowers.”
“Technically, he’s thirty now, right? You said he’s been dead for three years.”
“Okay, but…” Did ghost logic work the same as vampire logic? A never-aging appearance, but mentally and emotionally they were far older?
It didn’t matter. What he needed to do was forget about the whole experience and get on with his life. Things were improving – he was nearly done with the stupid grass on the client’s landscape painting; there was no more music at two am.; no sudden noises that threatened to be intruders; and placebo or not, that piece of rainbow obsidian beneath his pillow every night and the sachet hanging offComedianin the closet brought him a modicum of comfort. None of that was a replacement for the way his life had been before the assault, but it was still something.
“Thanks for chatting with me. And for letting me draw you. I should go now so I’m not holding up your line,” he said.
“Oh honey, it’s a slow night. I’ve got plenty of time to hear about your hot ghost.”
He pursed his lips. “I appreciate that. Getting late for me, though. Maybe I’ll try out one of your suggestions tomorrow.”
“Well… Alright.” The operator sounded like someone said her favorite soap opera had been canceled. “Good luck. If something develops, you can for sure call me on this line. Ask for number forty-six.”
“Right.” Not that she would need that with her running head canon. “Goodbye.”
After pulling out his earpiece, he hung the operator’s sketch on the wall with the others.
Forget about him. That’s all there was to do. Micah’s studio was his alone again. Everett was proud of him for the small steps he was taking toward living normally again, and he could continue that by finishing this commission. He needed to send out more job applications and submit his portfolio to other galleries, but every rejection was a harder kick to the gut, and it was difficult to summon up the motivation to keep trying.
He shut off the lights and climbed into bed, then opened his phone, finger hovering over a folder of social media apps. After detouring down to his photo gallery instead, he opened the video of Cosmo. Skipping to second twenty-three, he advanced frame by frame. “Fog” wasn’t the best term for the substance that Cosmo leaned out of, but it was hard to describe it any other way. His upper half assimilated from nothing, soft sprays of agitated particles fringing his terminated torso.
