(this is what’s called a fibonacci piece. each line has a word count that corresponds to a digit in the fibonacci sequence, culminating in 144 and decreasing from there.)
No – you…
You heard me.
Why are you still here?
I know we weren’t finished with everything, but…
We’ve been through this. You don’t belong here. I’m trying to heal myself.
Yeah, this is your shirt. I kept it. I like the way it smells. So big on me. I miss you.
Can’t you see? This, you being here, it’s worse for the both of us. I can’t move on if you’re still hanging around like one of those leashed children that you hated so much.
Of course I love you, how could you even question that? But hon, you died. I almost did too. I know you wouldn’t want me to live in your world, so why do you insist on living in mine? You can’t stay here. I can’t date a Dickensian spirit, which you totally are. No, please…
Please don’t cry. Please. I can’t stand to see you in pain. Those last few moments in the car, I don’t think I’ll ever get them out of my head. Your grip on my hand loosening as you choked on your last words like a sinking boat on river of blood. I love you, you said. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t’ve suggested we go out that night. It was my fault. No, I know it was. I knew you were right about the roads, but I was too stubborn.
Jesus Christ, is it a requirement that ghosts are cryptic? What does that even mean? You’ve left something behind? Do you want the shirt back, because I don’t think you can take it with you. Besides, it’d just go right through you. You’re basically a hologram. But seriously, what could you have possibly left behind that could keep you here like this? Life? That’s ridiculous. Of course you left life behind, you’re a ghost. Kind of a comorbidity. Get it? Comorbidity. Because you’re dead? Don’t shake your head, you know you won’t leave me. Shit. I’m sorry. Easy to forget when you’re right here, not exactly in the flesh, but here. Seriously, what’s keeping you tethered to the mortal coil? Is it my fantastic body? In a sense? What the shit does that mean? Do I need to douche? Oh. Oh. Oh fucking shit.
Yeah, yeah, I’m pouring the wine out. You’ve got to be kidding me. I mean, seriously? What kind of cosmic joke is this? My husband dies because I drove on an icy road, so then I live in a house in which I expect him to come around the corner at every sound. I cry myself to sleep for a week or two, then he shows up all ghostly and follows me around for a month before he decides to tell me I’m pregnant and he can’t pass on until “the seed flowers”. That’s a ridiculous way to put it. God. Oh, that’s what They said. Who’s They? Right, can’t tell me. Never crossed your mind to let me know? What am I going to do? No, I’m going to cry. This, this is too much. Hon, I don’t think I can do this.
Well of course you can’t see the problem. You’re dead! You don’t have to deal with the consequences! No, of course I’m not going to “take care of it”. You know me, I just need a little time to… process. Yes, we wanted a baby someday, I just wasn’t expecting “someday” to come without you holding my hand. What are you doing? Whoa. No, don’t let go, it feels nice. Just… different than before. You still run your thumb across the back of my hand the way I like.
Listen, I’m sorry about what I said before. It’s probably not healthy and my grief counselor would be having a conniption, but I can’t do this without you, or at least this part of you. And there’s something about a finite date for the end of whatever this is that I think might help me.
And you won’t leave me by myself this time. No, hon, I don’t blame you. This time we can really say goodbye and at least I’ll be busy with something that isn’t funeral arrangements.
I know you’d love to help, and I’m sorry you won’t be able to. But, I think I can do this.
I know what I said before. I’ve changed my mind. I’m allowed to.
I should go buy vitamins tomorrow. And spinach.
I think I’ll sleep now.
You’ll be here?