Conversations With the Ghost (I)

"You're good," he said, setting the pages down on the wire table. I put my plate (empty aside from the blueberries I had picked out of my scone) on top of them, afraid and praying that the light breeze might blow them away. "I mean, right there," he pointed, jarring a blueberry, "right there, I think you meant 'pray' instead of 'prey'. But other than that...it was really good."

"No, listen," I told him desperately. "Stop. It's not."

He did not react. He folded his hands and looked at me from over his glasses. "I see. And why do you feel that way?"

"Nice try," I told him. "But my therapist's a woman."

She brushed her long, blonde curls out of her face and adjusted her blouse. "I see. And why do you feel that way?"

I sighed. "Because...shit, I don't know."

She stared.

"Because...because of time, I guess, and the way it passes. Because no matter how good I think it is now, at some point I'm going to be older and know better. I'm going to look back at this-" tap tap tap on the table "-and I'm going to feel sorry for myself. For thinking that this kind of bullshit could get me anywhere in life."

"But," she said, "It is good. You think it's good."

"Yes," I conceded, "but it's not good because of me. It's good because of you."

"Me?" she asked, surprised.

"No."

"Me?" he inquired, cleaning his glasses.

"Close."

He took off his glasses altogether and shook his hair out of his eyes. "Oh, duh. It's me, isn't it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Well, yeah. It is you."

"What about me?" He looked at me like I was crazy. It was deserved, but it took me by surprise. My mouth disappeared and my eyes lowered. "Oh, stop that," he said. "You brought me here. You have something to tell me, don't you?"

"I told you. My therapist's a woman," I mumbled, and he laughed. I made him laugh!

"Come on," he said. "What is it?"

I bit my bottom lip, then the top, stretching them out, stretching for time. "You're...like, the reason, or something."

He raised his eyebrows. "The reason?"

"Yeah. You're my reason. You're...my why, I guess." I squished a blueberry beneath my thumb, relishing the way it resisted for just a moment, unconvincing, before spraying juice and blueberry guts all over my palm. "Why the fuck are there still blueberries in the scones here, anyways?"

"I'm your why?"

"Please stop repeating everything I say as a question in a cheap attempt to get in some dialogue. You would never do that. You would stare at me with a quizzical mixture of disdain and curiosity until I felt obliged to explain myself."

He stared at me with a quizzical mixture of disdain and curiosity until I felt obliged to explain myself.

"You're why I write. Well, not really. But you're why I write well. I copy you. I imitate. I know it's good, but it's not good because of me. It's good because of you. And my writing is...like, it's me. So does that mean you're me? Does that mean that I don't exist without you? And we're not close. You hold the cards. You hold the power."

"You're babbling."

"I know." Stop. Take a deep breath. "I know. But there's no good way to get this out. No easy way. No eloquent way."

"So, why are you trying?"

My laughter ruffled the pages in front of me. So many pages. But what had I said? "Shit. Because. Because I don't know how to stop."

We sat without speaking. The breeze whistled through the wire table.