9
Tristan
Demi fell asleep on the porch swing, and I’ve never wanted anything more in my afterlife than to be able to carry her to her bed without waking her.
If I were alive, I would have done it. I would have scooped her in my arms so tenderly that she’d barely even notice she was being moved.
She would turn her face into my chest, and I would press my nose to the top of her head to smell her hair.
Then I would carry her inside and upstairs, gently lowering her onto her bed.
I’d pull the blankets up to her chin, and if I were the luckiest man on earth, I’d slide in next to her and spend the night with her in my arms.
But I can’t do any of that because I’m dead and she’s alive. Probably the most alive person I’ve ever known.
Instead, I stop pushing the swing, and the sudden cease of motion stirs Demi half-awake.
She groans and sits up, stretching her arms above her head.
The blanket slips off her shoulders and pools around her waist, revealing a gray tank top that’s ridden up around her ribcage.
The sight of the dip in her waist and the bell curve of her hips and all that soft skin hits me like an assault.
She pulls the blanket back up around her shoulders, then gathers the photo albums and her empty glass before heading inside.
Her mouth opens in a yawn as she deposits the items on the credenza in the foyer to be dealt with later, then makes her way to the staircase.
I push the glass and photo albums back from the edge of the credenza, so they don’t fall off.
After locking our front door, I follow her upstairs, and Mittens follows me.
She spends a little time in the bathroom, and when she emerges, I can smell the mint of her toothpaste and the subtle, milky scent of the face cream she puts on before bed every night.
I try not to notice how short her sleep shorts are, the pretty slopes of her legs, or how low cut her tank top is in the front.
I try to look away from the delicious way her curves bounce and shift as she slides into bed.
Demi reaches up and turns off her bedside lamp, shrouding the room in darkness. The starlight through the bay window is just barely enough for me to see. She pulls the blankets up her body and snuggles into bed.
It’s so intimate, this nighttime ritual I get to watch. It’s an honor to bear witness to a woman going to bed. It’s a privilege. That’s when I remember that I wasn’t invited to participate in these quiet moments, or even to watch them. I’m invading.
But then she murmurs, “Goodnight, Tristan.”
The acknowledgment cuts me off at the knees, and I have to sit down at the foot of her bed. She knows I’m here, even if she can’t see me; she can feel me. I’d give anything just to hear her say that again, to confirm my existence. As if I’m more than just a memory, more than just a ghost.
The emotion swirling through my spirit is almost too much to bear. How long has it been since I’ve felt anything besides the monotonous desolation of an eternity left behind? Hell, how long has it been since I merely had a conversation with someone?
I spend the night sitting at the foot of her bed next to Mittens, watching her sleep, and allowing myself to bask in the knowledge that, to her, I’m real.
There’s a warm feeling that sizzles in the center of me. I recognize it, though it’s been half a century since I felt it. It’s the most wonderful and dangerous of human emotions.
Hope.
~
In the morning, Demi wears a blue-and-white flowered silk robe, her hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head and makes breakfast in the kitchen while music from the record player fills the house.
The singer is a man with an incredible range, and the songs he sings evoke a sense of melancholy, a little like weeping.
I looked at the record sleeve and noted the name: Jeff Buckley.
He was after my time, but there’s something I like about him.
Maybe it’s his lyrics. Like the song Demi is singing along to while she messily mixes pancake batter, slopping it over the sides of the bowl and onto the counter.
It's never over. All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter. It's never over. She is the tear that hangs inside my soul forever.
Not to be dramatic, but I feel like I can relate.
There are so many things I miss about being alive, but the thing that will forever sit firmly in my top three is food.
Demi is a disaster in the kitchen. She’s a little hurricane of chaos, leaving a mess everywhere she goes.
She leaves drawers and cabinets open and then forgets, bumping into them when she turns around.
There’s a dusting of flour all over the counters and even the floor.
Eggshells lay discarded next to an open bottle of vanilla extract, and there’s cinnamon everywhere because it came out of the bottle faster than she expected.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore, so I close all the cabinets and drawers she’s left open. It startles a gasp out of her, and she pauses what she’s doing to get her bearings. She blinks a few times as if to convince herself that she really did see the drawers and cabinets close on their own.
“Hi, Tristan,” she says. “A little warning next time would be nice.”
I smirk and write Sorry ?in the flour dust on the counter. She sees it immediately, and a bright smile lights up her whole face. I think maybe fifty years alone have been worth it if they’ve led to making a woman like Demi smile this way.
Pancakes sizzle on the skillet as she drops uneven globs of the batter into the hot pan.
They’re not exactly circles, but the smell that hits me from the stovetop as they cook is familiar and wonderful—butter and sugar, warm cinnamon, something that smells like home as a kid.
A long-lost memory, newly unlocked, fills me with fresh longing.
Demi flips the pancakes with a spatula, and she must be satisfied with her handiwork, because she remarks, “Nice,” to herself once they’re successfully flipped.
Her tableware set isn’t as much of a set as it is a collection of mismatched floral dishes that are probably older than she is. She slides her pancakes onto a plate, slaps a pat of butter on them with a spoon, then drizzles local maple syrup over top.
I follow her as she takes her breakfast and a cup of coffee into the sunroom at the back of the Manor.
It’s one of my favorite rooms in the house.
Facing the backyard garden, it was constructed to look like a twin to the greenhouse that sits back there in the overgrown foliage.
The sunroom has a glass ceiling and large, arched windows with pale-green painted frames, letting in plenty of warm sunlight.
The floors are black-and-white tiles set in a diamond pattern, and the space features wicker furniture overstuffed with clean, dark green cushions.
My parents used to grow houseplants in this room when I was young, and I wonder if Demi will ever do the same.
She sits down on the loveseat and sets her mug on the coffee table. Her robe falls open over her thighs as she settles into the seat. I catch a shadowy glimpse between her legs, the hint of her panties.
I swear to Christ, I try to look away. And I just… can’t. My gaze is fixed on that soft little triangle between her thick thighs. Fuck me, I think there are little red cherries decorating the white cotton. I don’t know why, but that detail makes me feel even filthier .
I’m met with feelings that have been absent from me for decades: desire, wanting, lust .???????? They roar through me like a long-dead engine coming back to life. Images and ideas flood my mind, coming for me at breakneck speed.
How would it feel to cup my hand there? To feel the soft fabric and her warmth radiating into my palm. How would it feel to part her legs a little more so that I could look my fill? How would she taste if I slid that cherry-printed cotton to the side and set my mouth on her?
What the hell am I doing?
With great effort, I tear my eyes away from Demi and look out at the garden. The vision is burned into my mind. Even as I look in the opposite direction, it’s all I can see. An urge takes hold of me–to touch, to caress, to taste her. I clench my hands into tight fists.
I hear the sound of a fork against ceramic and turn back to her.
Demi is lifting a bite of pancake to her mouth.
Her pillowy lips close around the fork, and she chews.
Her mouth transfixes me. A perfect drop of maple syrup clings to her bottom lip.
She swipes it with her middle finger, then slides it into her mouth to suck clean.
Her cheeks hollow out a little, her lips purse, and I’m utterly lost.
I want nothing more than to be that drop of maple syrup on her finger, to let her savor and devour me.
For a moment, I’ve forgotten that I’m a ghost. For a moment, I feel like a man.
Then the realization crashes into me. I can’t have any of the things I want, no matter how persistent and ruthless the urge.
I can’t touch her, not in any kind of real way.
My mouth will never kiss hers, or taste her skin.
I will never be the worthy recipient of the opening of her legs, or the moaned beckoning to bring her pleasure.
The grief I feel is enough to burn this whole house to ash.