Braving The Rain

There's another ghost, crossing the studio to get a slice of pizza.

He's another fully flesh-and-blood memory from my past, a large, solid reminder of all my transgressions. He's the same as I remember him, though he's sadder now, and later on this afternoon, he tells me why. Still the perfect gentleman, he knows that he shouldn't talk about why I've disappeared, and why I can't ever go back: nearly three years have passed and still the wound has not healed. To dig up bones that are better left buried would be unwise - and so we talk about work, what's been going on in our lives, the pursuit of happiness, etcetera etcetera. By the way he shifts his body away from me, and the glimmering distrust in his eyes, I can tell he really doesn't want to be here, or anywhere where I am. And who can blame him? He's been told how evil and manipulative I can be. But I want to prove him wrong. I want to show him just how much I've changed: I'm not like that anymore. If I met that girl that I was three years ago on the street, I would turn around and run the other way. Yet I don't know how to begin to do this. I'm at a loss for words, or at least, the right ones to use, though I so desperately want to dispel this demon of disquiet between us.

So this awkward dance of feigned ignorance goes on. He tries to avoid me when he can. For suffering my presence in that small room for half the day, I already give him credit. When we say goodbye, he says it with great relief. Strangely enough, I'm not as bothered by this as I should be. Life has taught me that there are just some things that were meant to stay broken.

When I step out into the hammering rain, with a pretty pink umbrella as my only protection, I resolve not to let any more ghosts bother me. After all, I am still very much alive.