"Ghost Walking" by Tom MorganThere’s a man on the roof of that building. If you would just turn around, you’d see him up there. This isn’t the usual view from your kitchen window, and I can’t help but be distracted, I’m sorry. You’re so upset, but I can’t take my eyes off him.
He’s wearing what look like pajamas. Christ, who’d be up there dressed like that? I think that building’s a hotel, it must be only a few blocks away from your apartment, though I’ve never noticed it before. This is one of the things you’re telling me; that I don’t pay enough attention to anything. If only I could think of something to say, something to stop your tears. But my attention is fixed over your shoulder, at the little figure in the distance, atop the harsh white of the flat rooftop and the sirens gathering below. He’s standing there still, not looking down. I wish it hadn’t come to this, I wish this wasn’t happening. Because the maw in my stomach is opening, it senses that something terrible is about to happen, and it’s lashing out. You stop the tirade for a moment, and stare at me dumb, asking what I have to say for myself. I gag on the words, mumble that I’m sorry but don’t know what more I could have done. The man on the roof raises his hands to the sky. Is he waving? Praying? You lay your palms on the table and explode into tears. I just stand there, this stoic contrast to your emotive sincerity. This sums up our time together. I refocus on the man, though I think I know what happens next.
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