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Watching Me Without You

I’ve had a long and frustrating day at work. In spite of that, I return home. I grab the flyers from the mailbox, fit the key into the front door lock and open the door.

Your ghost sits on the front hall bench opposite the grandfather clock, where it has been for days, watching, waiting.

Flyers into the garbage can, briefcase to the floor, coat into the hall closet. The closet door hinges squeak. I have no inclination to silence them.

I glance at your ghost. Its eyes lock on mine. Its lips move, but I can’t hear what it says. Its expression is inscrutable. I sit down beside your ghost. I tell it that I love it, which isn’t true. It is your ghost; it isn’t you. I reach out my hand, but your ghost does not reciprocate. Eyes lock, lips move, nothing else.

The clock opposite suggests that I cannot sit here longer. I stand and walk toward the kitchen. At the kitchen door, I stop and turn back to look at your ghost. Eyes lock, lips move. Waiting for… what?

I walk into the kitchen and turn on the radio.

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