criminal

It was supposed to be a simple reunion -
    two old friends quietly taking solace in the infrequent luxury of being richly understood
    kindred spirits content to walk about in the candor of daytime shadows

How was I to know he would pour his heart out to Laila the night I introduced them?

He's in love with you! she laughed with wide eyes. Like... madly in love. 

What had I done?

Have Your Cake

She gripped the railing and spoke to her left hand.

Maybe next time I should leave it at home.

I glanced at her ring finger, but said nothing. I already knew she was bothered.

As we poured out of the dance club, sultry on sexual overtone, we politely declined offers for an extended evening. Beyond steamy smoke and mirrors, I assured ambitious amateurs that our phone numbers would do them no good.

A few steps away, Laila was exposed under the jaundiced glow of a street lamp. The multifaceted cut so carefully selected for her would glimmer under even the grimiest bulb.

Man, don't waste your time. She's married. 

The corners of her smile fell a little.
Anyone could see this was new to her.

Just Visiting -

Laila sleeps.

Her long copper hair is sprawled across the pillow and she breathes slowly, nullifying our morning agenda. Today is her birthday, though, so I don't wake her up.

We spent Saturday night marching up and down Chestnut Street in heels, avoiding the sewer grates and hugging our bodies until we had imbibed enough canned heat to feel warm from the inside. Swirling inside a dark and crowded little dance club, Laila and I sweated out the alcohol with a mixture of house and hip hop, surreptitiously slipping between men, and occasionally breaking for a burst of cool night air. Outside, we made small talk with the door man and patronized all of the boys wearing glasses without prescription lenses. (Most of these boys were also in plaid.) Coquettish banter with almost everyone waiting in line meant that no one was a stranger when we plunged back into the cacophony of the crowd.

The city is alive and we are fresh with the freedom of interlopers.

Fourteen Ghosts

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.

It is good to be away for a while, but this isn't quite what I expected. Gradually, I have learned the cadence of the house. I anticipate its creaky floorboards. Hollow clunking of pipes within the walls no longer triggers me to glance over my shoulder as I work. This is the last weekend I'll spend alone here because 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?

mélange

Sipping martinis and facing the street, we sit shoulder to shoulder in Midtown. Through the window, I recognize the restaurant where Jerome cooks. I turn to Laila and nod across the street. 

"The French chef."

 It's a matter of fact and, with an eyebrow and a smirk, it's also inevitable. She holds my hand as we dash across the intersection.

I've never been here before. Late enough in the night, the lights are dimmed and the atmosphere is pumped with music as patrons filter up to the rooftop. We slide onto bar stools and look around. 

"Ladies?" The bartender leans in and smiles. 
"Is Jerome on tonight?" Laila is drunk. And gorgeous. She inquires before I have the chance. 
"Well, it just so happens..."

"Did not think we would meet again." 

His arm is around my shoulders and his lips are at my ear. He is surprised to see me. No doubt my text message yesterday came unexpected. 

        Just found out that I'm moving. 
      I got a new job. 
      Sorry.

We had only been on a few dates. He invited me to visit his home in the countryside near Toulouse when he stayed over once. It never would have worked out. 

Tonight, we drink on the house. The mélange of liquor, heartache and this man's seductive accent invites me to act foolishly.