I am sipping from a cool, flimsy plastic water bottle that feels utterly out of place. A dank scent settles in the air space between floral patterned drapes and other pieces. It is a feature that single handedly betrays the age of this house. A polished brass chandelier is suspended, motionless. Smooth, antique bar back chairs are tucked around the perimeter of a burnished mahogany dining table. I am perched at the head, playing host to fourteen ghosts.
Laila is coming to visit next weekend, and Jack will be here to accompany me on the long drive home.
I wonder if you have to choose a single place to haunt. As a ghost, I mean. Or do you get to flutter between all of the places you loved? Is there a limit to the places a phantom might join you for dinner?