Cake Spell
Excerpt from Main Character Syndrome

Our main character lies on her bed in her underwear with a towel on her head. Staring across the room into her closet, she thinks about what she wants to wear tonight. Several days have passed since she last saw the ghost, and tonight they have plans to have dinner at the Whole Foods in Fremont, near his grandma’s house. Let’s get a roast chicken, she’d sent via messenger, and he agreed with a lol. They often communicate in acronyms, lols and imys, which can be read as sincere or sarcastic depending on context, and even with context it’s not always clear. 

She rises from her bed to select a dress from her closet and, as she stands, she picks up her phone and sees a new notification, a message the ghost sent her while she was in the shower.

“Sorry, I’m gonna flake.”

She frowns and replies back. “I’m confused, I thought we confirmed earlier today?”

The ghost is online, currently active on messenger. He writes back, “I know, but you went offline and I thought you were going to flake, so I started drinking.”

“I just showered and got myself mentally prepared to meet you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m totally in the wrong here.”

“I was excited to have roast chicken with you.”

“Omg roast chicken. Why do I like you so much,” the ghost types.

“I like you too,” our main character types. “I just want you to respect my time. I try not to bug you too much because I know you’re busy, but I’m busy too.”

“I totally respect you, I want you to know that,” the ghost writes back.

“I can just come to you, on the train.”

“You don’t want to do that, it’s a mess here. Let me take you out tomorrow.”

“I’m crying,” she types, and she really is. She feels the tears well up and she feels shame for letting this inconsequential dismissal have an emotional effect on her.

“Are you really,” the ghost types. 

“Yeah.”

Our main character wipes her nose with a finger and turns her head upside down to take the towel out of her hair. In the bathroom, she hangs the towel on the door and ties her wet hair in a bun with a scrunchie. Returning to the bed, she sits on the edge and looks at her phone. The ghost is typing a long message into the messenger, she can see the text box with its animated ellipses pulsing. He sends the message.

“Please don’t cry. I really like you, and I promise I’m not playing with you. The reality is that I haven’t felt this way in a while about anyone, and I don’t want to ruin it.”

Our main character looks down at her phone and wipes her eyes. She thinks that he might be sincere. She types back: “I haven’t felt this way in a long time either. I feel like I know you.” 

It’s true. He reminds her of her friends from high-school, her gang of misfit boys and girls who hung out in the music corridor during lunch period and skipped class together to make spaghetti at someone’s mom’s house. They’d play shopping cart bumper cars in the grocery store parking lot on late summer nights and had their own special holidays, like the time they dressed up like pirates and went to the mall to weird-out the normies. He makes her feel like the person she is but hasn’t felt like she could be, authentically, around someone else since becoming an adult. 

“I thought about you all day today. I hope that isn’t weird, but I am an eccentric person.”

“It’s not weird,” she types.

“I’ve been telling my best friend all about you. I feel like I’m in high-school.”

“What do you mean?” Her chest is pounding.

“Just like, the butterflies. I don’t usually feel like this. I don’t usually feel excited about people.”

“I feel like a dumb girl right now.”

“Please don’t.”

She stands up and puts on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She is still holding her phone.

“My time is important to me. I like spending time alone, but I also want to see you. I just hope you know that when I make a plan with you it’s a commitment to me.”

“Yeah and I know that’s the importance of it. I don’t want you to think I’m wasting your time.”

“I really hope you’re not.”

“I’m not. I honestly wouldn’t even talk to you if I was. Or even TRY.”

“I’m not trying to be demanding,” she types as she gathers her things to leave the house.

“You’re not. It’s very valid. You’re 100% in the right.”

“It’s not even about right and wrong,” she types, standing on her porch after locking the front door.  “We just need to know where we’re coming from.”

“Yeah I agree. I’m not here to waste your time or make you feel sad. I’m here to improve your time, make you feel happy and WANTED and that’s what I want to do!”

She stares at her screen for a while. She considers what the ghost is saying. “Is that a sarcastic exclamation,” she types.

“No. It’s true. Was that a sarcastic question?”

“No. I like you.”

“Wow. I was just typing that tbh. I like you a lot. I’ve been thinking about you so much lately.”

“Me too.”

“Want to hold your hand. Fantasized about us making out in a bathroom, but a clean one.”

“That would be cute,” she types. “I cleaned my bathroom last night. Before I washed my hair.”

“Hm………..” the ghost types. “I want to take risks with you like that.”

“I’m into it,” our main character types, now walking down her street in the general direction of Berkeley.

“I’m a little ‘kinky’ when it comes to adrenaline things like that.”

“So am I,” she types, but she starts wondering where this conversation is going.

“Wow. It’s why I LOVE the ‘asexual friend’ idea,” the ghost types. “Us roleplaying with each other. We say that we met at college while you’re on a tinder date. He thinks you’re into him, but in reality it’s just some sick adrenaline rush. Hahahhahaha.”

Our main character is unsure of where she’s headed. She just needs to move and look at some succulents in the front gardens of the homes in her neighborhood. If he plays games with random people, why wouldn’t he do it to her? She is also a random person to him.

“Lol,” she types back, the typical response they both seem to give when they’re not sure what to say.

“Sorry. That was probably TOO MUCH.”

“I like how creative you are.” She’s sincere about this. 

“Thanks,” the ghost types. “I’d also want to be like, feeling your legs too at the time.”

“Yeah we’d go to some bar,” our main character types, deciding to go along with the joke, pretending they’re co-conspirators in this weird confidence scheme the ghost concocted. “Then you show up ‘randomly’ and sit next to me, feeling my legs up my skirt while we’re chatting with the tinder guy, telling him about our old college days.”

“Hahahhahahahahahaha. Me, getting some food, rubbing your legs more and then going ‘wow taste this,’ in reality making you taste your legs, while the tinder guy is totally oblivious.”

“Omg,” our main character types back, almost recoiling from the screen, but not really.

“Fucking LOVE this idea,” the ghost types. “Excuse my language.”

“It’s a great idea.” 

“Lol. We’d both be so turned on I’d ‘walk you to the bathroom’ hahahaha.”

“Hahahahaha,” our main character types while waiting at a busy intersection for the pedestrian cross sign to come on.

“Lol. Now, don’t lie. You have to admit it’s PRETTY HOT!”

Our main character makes her way across the busy street and looks at her phone after getting back on the sidewalk. 

She reads the message from the ghost and considers the whole scenario for a moment. Would she really download a dating app in order to trick some guy into going on a date with her so the ghost can intervene and touch her legs while chatting with the date about old college days? It’s funny to think about. She’s been thinking about making out with the ghost, they’ve talked about it on multiple occasions, but they’ve never come close to doing anything like that. She doesn’t want to have sex with him. She doesn’t want to have sex with anyone, actually. But maybe making out wouldn’t be so bad. Making out with the ghost might feel the way making out felt in high-school, mysterious and exciting, but with a new familiarity added in. Simple, like when she was younger.

“It is,” she types back. She wonders if the asexual friend/Tinder date idea is a real fantasy of the ghost’s or if it’s just a bit. She really isn’t sure. He’s brought it up before.

“Making him subconsciously cuckold?” the ghost types. “Are you actually into that?”

“Would he come looking for us in the bathroom,” our main character types back, still trying to imagine how this would go down in real life, or how it would be depicted in a TV show.

“Nah,” the ghost writes back. “First date, he would be afraid to offend you.”

“Lol,” our main character types. She has already traveled quite a distance during this conversation. 

“It’s so perfect, and while we are in bed making out he will text you ‘i had a good time’ and I’ll take the phone and go ‘me too’ while kissing you. Hahaha dead….”

“Yes,” our main character types back, agreeing to the idea of making out.

“Do you like it? (I do),” the ghost types.

“Yeah I’m into it,” our main character types, then redirects back to their Cuddlebugz bit, their fake company established on the grounds of trolling people in various ways. “It’s all part of our business plan, right?”

“Yes, we are sick… jk,” the ghost types. “We are great.”

“I just got deja vu,” our main character types, walking up a hill and looking in the windows of people’s houses as she passes them. “I’m taking a walk.”

“How are you walking and typing at the same time,” the ghost writes. “You’re amazing.”

“It’s pretty easy.” 

“I’m watching fishing videos. I’ll show you some of his vids when you get home. Hey, why not?”

“Thanks, babe,” our main character types. Back to the bit where they’re an ordinary married couple. “Looking forward to it.”

The ghost and our main character exchange a series of smiley faces, ranging from the blushy face smiley face to the wagging tongue smiley face. She smiles at her phone and crosses a parking lot to get to the main entrance of the grocery store, picks up a shopping basket near the front door, and calls her old friend.

“What’s up,” her old friend says. “I’m making muffins right now.”

“What kind of muffins?” 

“Cranberry with orange zest. I’m almost done scooping the batter into the muffin tins.”

“I got stood up,” our main character says, standing in front of a display of apples, stacked in the shape of a pyramid. “Sorry, I can call back later if you need to focus on the muffins.” She picks up a Braeburn apple from the top of the stack, checks it for bruises.

“It’s fine, I got you on speakerphone. What happened?”

“We were supposed to hang out tonight. He said he was going to pick me up, and we talked about it today, like all day. We confirmed this afternoon. I got home from work and got ready to go out and when I got out of the shower I saw a text from him that said he was going to bail. He said he started drinking because he was nervous that I was going to stand him up.”

“That sounds like bullshit,” her old friend says.

“I’m pretty mad. But I decided to get out and do something, so now I’m at the grocery store.”

“Did you tell him you were mad?” 

“I told him that I felt disrespected. He apologized a bunch. I don’t know.”

“He sounds kinda suspect.”

“He said he would make it up to me tomorrow.”

“I want to meet this guy,” her old friend says.

The grocery store is brightly lit in a clinical way. People work here. This is a place of employment and commerce and our main character came here because needed a destination.  How many apples should she buy to make the journey worth it? Maybe grab a ruby red grapefruit for good measure so it’s less like loitering.

“Did you put the muffins in the oven yet?”

“Yup, they just went in.”

“Will you save me one?”

“Absolutely, but I’m not sure when I’ll see you next,” her old friend says.

Inspired by this exchange, she heads to the bakery section and looks at the selection of chilled sheet cakes encased in hard plastic in the open top refrigerator. She picks up a chocolate frosted yellow cake with the word “Congratulations!” in piped blue icing.

“What do you mean, wait hold on a sec, I’m trying to get this bakery person’s attention.”

Cake in hand, she waits to make eye contact with the person working behind the bakery counter.

“Excuse me,” our main character says to the bakery worker. “Can I have some candles please?”

The bakery worker looks at the “congratulations” cake and says, “Yeah, sure. Hold on.”

The bakery worker opens a drawer and pulls out a pack of candles, hands them to our main character.

“Thank you,” our main character says. She smiles at the bakery worker then walks through the freezer section toward the checkout counter. “Okay I’m back, what were you saying” she says to her old friend on the phone.

“I was just saying I haven’t heard from you in a while!” her old friend says. “But we should do something soon, have a writing-date maybe.”

“I think I’d like that, I’ve been working on something new,” our main character says, standing in the freezer aisle and gazing at all the different frozen waffle options in one of the cold cases.

“Oh yeah, are you doing something with those confessions from the zine fair?”

“It’s inspired by the experience of the confession booth, but I think it might be bigger than that. I can’t really explain it, but I’ve been writing a lot. What about you?”

“I’m finishing up a novel, something I’ve been writing for like five years. I could use a second set of eyes on it, if you’d be up for that,” her old friend says.

“Would I!” our main character says with an enthusiasm that could be mistaken for sarcasm if you didn’t know her well. “I’d love to get a first exclusive look at your new novel.”

“Let’s pick a date later when you’re not at the grocery store. Also, I just remembered we have kiosk day coming up.” 

Our main character leaves the freezer aisle to buy the cake, the fruit, and a kombucha that she pulls from the beverage cooler near the cashier stand.

“I’ll definitely be seeing you soon. I’m about to check out,” she tells her old friend. “I can’t believe they’re playing Elliott Smith in here.”

“Are they playing ‘Miss Misery,’ or that other one,” her old friend says.

“It’s the one that goes, ‘for someone half as smart, you’d be a work of art…”

“Oh, I like that one,” her old friend says.

“I kinda like it, but I hate it right now,” our main character says. “Okay, I’m going to check out now. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Call me later if you want.”

“Enjoy your muffins,” our main character says, and ends the call. She puts her items on the conveyor belt and checks out. She bags the kombucha and fruit in a paper bag and carries the cake with her other hand to a picnic table outside the store for a quick break. 

Did he really think he was going to be stood up? Maybe this really is all a game. But what would the point of it even be?

She takes the bottle of kombucha out of the grocery bag and opens it, sips, breathes deep and exhales. All the coffee she drank at the office earlier pulses through her. A balled fist rests on her knee, she looks down and unclenches. Her fingers are free to spread out and feel the fabric of her jeans, structured and soft, interwoven fibers all worn-in from washing. She slows down her thoughts this way, then stares off into the distance at the donut shop across the parking lot not really looking at anything, more like looking through it. 

Muscle by muscle, she untightens and relaxes, her shoulders, her neck, her head a lightbulb unscrewing from its fixture. With a promise to keep breathing, she gathers her things and starts the trek back home.

The two miles back to her house, despite having to shuffle the heavier than expected cake from one hand to the other every few blocks, feels shorter than the trip to the store. An intrusive thought creeps in and she imagines tripping over an uneven sidewalk with the dessert flying forward in a splatter as she faceplants into pavement. She shakes her head and takes each step thoughtfully, careful not to daydream too much.

By the time she gets home her wrists feel like they ran a marathon. The plastic cake container is balanced on her knee as she unlocks the front door, an almost stereotypical act that every time reminds her of the single working women in movies coming home with an overwhelming armful of items. It’s funny how movies use these shorthands. Funnier still when they come to life.

Once inside, she drops the bag and sets the cake down so she can pet the cat rolling happily at her feet. 

The lid comes off and the pack of birthday candles is torn open. Thirty candles in the pack. Perfect. One for every year she’s been alive. 

Her arms tingle, overstimulated from the load. A reminder that she wants to put something to rest here. Maybe put a lot of things to rest. This is a cake to reconcile the bad thoughts she has about herself and she will light a candle for every one of them, wick by wick. 

She strikes a match and lights a green candle, holds it up ceremoniously like a toast, like a torch, letting the soft orange glow illuminate her face before plunging it softly into the icing. 

This is a spell she just made up, but it feels like it could be a real spell. There is intention and an action to commemorate wanting something to change.

Part of the process is acknowledging the feelings and accepting them. A match strike to light each candle individually, to observe and let go. She lights a pink candle for the anxiety she feels at work when she can’t seem to do a task without procrastinating and looking at social media. A blue candle for the time she took all her clothes off at a party when she got too drunk. A yellow candle for the way she compares herself to other people. A purple candle for not knowing if she wants to trust the ghost. 

Each candle is lit slowly then set into the cake. Every movement is thoughtful, every breath is deliberate. Each match strike paced with energy concentrated into every candle. 

The candles stay lit, she doesn’t blow them out. Instead, she watches slumping puddles of soft wax until the flames have suffocated. 

To finish the spell, she cuts the cake and serves herself a big slice on a plate then takes it to her bed with a fork. She sits and thinks about opening her laptop but doesn’t. She peels the wax off with her fingers and scoops crumbly morsels into her mouth. She doesn’t think about the serving size or how much sugar she’s ingesting. With every bite she thinks about anxieties she watched disintegrate, how trivial worries became once transferred into dripping birthday candles. Her cat jumps on the bed and sniffs the plate, then curls up at her feet. 

“Congratulations,” she says out loud and takes the last bite of the slice. 

She washes her face, puts on pajamas, and gets into bed, falling asleep with the cake in her belly.

The next day, our main character leaves her office early. Her boss is out of the country and she’s been staying up late to be on-call during his working hours, twelve time zones ahead of hers, so she feels no guilt about leaving before 4pm. She rides her bike on the Ohlone Greenway and listens to Songs: Ohia, singing along to the parts she likes, enjoying the tailwind propelling her all the way home. 

The ghost texted her and told her to meet him at the Sycamore, his usual meeting place. How many times has she met him there? Maybe a handful, maybe less, but it already feels routine. 

Before she can leave her apartment she prepares herself: feeds her cat and then takes a shower, washes her hair, picks a dress from her closet and hides a pair of clean underwear in her bag, just in case she ends up spending the night somewhere. On her walk to the train station, she notices several rose blooms torn and strewn on the sidewalk. There isn’t enough time to stop and think about them, she can hear the train just behind her overhead so she quickens her pace and arrives at the station just as the train slides in. She runs up the stairs just a breath before the doors slide open. 

The sun is setting when she shows up at the bar. She goes straight to the backyard patio. The ghost is at his picnic table, his back to the wall and eyes on his phone. He looks up at her briefly when she sits down next to him. The ghost’s stoner friend comes out of the bathroom and joins them. 

“Check this out,” the ghost says to his stoner friend, passing his phone over. Catching a glimpse of the screen, what looks like a mirror selfie of a woman in a bikini, our main character is intrigued but doesn’t want to seem too eager.

“Ah, the Florida girl,” the stoner friend says, handing the phone back to the ghost.

“Who’s the Florida girl?” our main character says.

“Just a friend on the internet,” the ghost says.

The stoner friend rolls his eyes and looks over at our main character with what looks like a proud smile. “He’s obsessed with her,” he says.

Okay. So the ghost is in love with some girl in Florida. It’s so nice that I’m finding this out now from his friend, she thinks. Does she feel deceived? Cognizant of the ghost watching her, she feels her face heat up to a devilish red but quickly pushes it back by imagining a black velvet drape dropping over her head to hide her.

“She’s the reason we started our company, so he can better keep tabs on her,” the stoner friend says. The ghost shows the stoner friend his phone again. The ghost smiles shiftily while the stoner friend laughs, eyebrows up in astonishment. They can’t be serious.

“Can’t believe you hacked into her Instagram messages,” the stoner friend says.

It’s hard to tell what is real and what is fake, what is performance and what is sincere. On his part, and on hers. It’s probably safer to assume it’s all fake. It’s all fake. I can just act and the consequences don’t matter, she thinks. She doesn’t believe the ghost actually hacked a Florida woman’s Instagram account. 

She imagines throwing salt over her left shoulder. She feels like the girl in the movie who keeps getting in the shot when she’s not even supposed to be in the scene.

Is any of this worth writing about? 

The stoner friend turns to talk about surfing to a guy sitting at their table sporting a bandana on his head in the style of Axl Rose. He’s not part of their group but the stoner friend is generally friendlier than the ghost and makes easy conversation with the bandana guy. 

The ghost and our main character look at each other and laugh quietly in mockery of the stoner friend and the bandana guy as well as any other patron of the bar they deem deserving. The ghost does most of the mocking and our main character does most of the laughing. When they’ve had their fill of people watching, the ghost removes his laptop from his backpack and pretends to build a website for our main character, “so your fans can reach out to you,” he says. The bandana guy gives the stoner friend his business card and invites him to his company’s 8th anniversary party happening a month from now. 

The ghost finishes his drink and gets bored and wants to leave, so the three of them decide to wander around the Mission district. Wandering is one of our main character’s favorite pastimes. Many of her weekends have been happily taking solo trips with no destination in mind, just for the sake of it, letting her instincts guide her. There’s something magical about wandering in a small group, as a unit. Like she’s on a sitcom. Like she’s Elaine from Seinfeld roaming the streets with George and Jerry and something comical is about to happen.

They don’t go very far. They stumble upon  the Vegetarian Times office, stopping momentarily because for some reason the ghost thinks it’s hilarious.

“I used to have a subscription to their magazine,” our main character says, not getting the joke but not interested enough to ask about it. While the ghost is going off on Vegetarian Times, she notices a building across the street with a sign that says The Dojo and says, “Should we check that out,” pointing across the street. They cross over and discuss ringing the bell and what they would say. 

“Let’s say we’re from Brooklyn and we’re interested in learning about San Francisco culture,” our main character says. 

“That’s a good idea,” the stoner friend says.

The ghost rings the bell on the intercom. 

A voice answers and says she’s not at the dojo right now but she is on her way back and will be there soon. 

They wait and a middle-aged woman in a tank top who must be the dojo lady runs over, waving her arms, and shakes the hands of the ghost and the ghost’s stoner friend. Our main character offers her hand and the dojo lady hesitates then shakes it firmly.. 

“We’re from out of town,” the stoner friend says, “We just happened to be walking by and saw your sign and wanted to check out your dojo.”

“Ah yes, we’ve been around for quite a long time,” the dojo lady says. “We’ve withstood more than one tech boom and bust,” the dojo lady says, entering a code into the door and unlocking the gate. 

She welcomes them in and takes the trio up the stairs of the building to a large studio with high ceilings with red paper lanterns hanging from the exposed wood beams and large windows looking out onto the street below. The scent of incense burning fills the space with a warm hominess. Several people with bare feet move sound equipment around on a stage near the windows. 

“We’re setting up for a party happening later tonight. We’re a very community-oriented space. We want to be like home for the people who come here. All of our volunteers help clean the space,” the dojo lady says.

The dojo lady explains more about the dojo and its purpose and history and asks if any of the three have ever done martial arts. 

Our main character catches the ghost snickering quietly, but changes his face when the dojo lady looks over at him. 

“I took a tai chi class once,” the stoner friend says. 

The dojo lady gives the ghost and the ghost’s stoner friend a business card. “Well, if you ever feel like you want to try martial arts again, you should definitely give me a call,” the dojo lady says. 

Our main character used to study Muay Thai but decides not to mention it to the dojo lady, who seems more interested in making eye contact with the ghost and his stoner friend. “Now, if I can’t help you with anything else,” the dojo lady says, “I should help these guys out with the stage. If you want to stop by later, the party will start around 7pm. No shoes, of course.”

The three of them leave the dojo and continue meandering aimlessly around the Mission. They stop inside a coffee shop. The ghost buys a coffee for himself and our main character while the stoner friend uses the bathroom. The ghost and our main character sit down in the back of the coffee shop, close to the point their thighs are touching. 

The ghost tells our main character that his company has a prototype unit at this coffee shop, which he uses to collect data about what kind of music people are listening to. 

“Can you only see what songs they’re playing, or can you see other stuff,” our main character says. 

“That’s a trade secret,” the ghost says, then pauses to touch our main character’s shoulder. “I love how you’re never on your phone. You’re such a rare bird,” the ghost says. 

“Unless my boss calls,” our main character says. “I like paying attention to the people I’m with.”

“Good,” the ghost says. “Listen, he’s gonna wanna get drunk with his buddy in a dirty music studio, let’s just go back to my house.” 

“That’s fine by me.”

After about twenty minutes the stoner friend comes out of the bathroom and invites the ghost and our main character to come back with him to his music studio. They both decline the offer. 

“My phone is going to die,” the ghost says.

“What about you,” the stoner friend says to our main character. “Do you want to come to the studio and watch us jam?” 

“Maybe another time,” our main character says to the stoner friend, then looks at the ghost. 

The stoner friend shrugs then exits the coffee shop in a hazy slow blur. Our main character and the ghost stay seated and watch a person typing code into a laptop at the table in front of them. 

“I really didn’t want to go to the studio and watch him and his bandmate get wasted together,” the ghost says.

“Have you heard him jam before,” our main character says.

“Yeah, and it’s always a shitshow,” the ghost says. “Let’s get out of here.”

The ghost and our main character leave the coffee shop and walk to the train station, making little jokes to each other as they pass people on the sidewalk, calling back to old jokes they’ve made with each other, all inside jokes, just loud enough for the people to hear as they pass and timed so they can see the people’s expressions change. Wait til Mark hears about this! Cuddlebugz passed another round of funding! How about this for a tagline: All checked out! 

Trolling in real life. She likes not being on the receiving end of the joke.

They take the escalator down to the train platform and the ghost grabs our main character by the waist. “I can’t wait to get home and be alone with my girl,” he says. Our main character looks back in a surprised smile. She doesn’t really understand their relationship, nor does she believe that the ghost’s romantic indications toward her are for real, but she likes him. Something about him excites her, makes her feel seen and part of a whole. A little prickle on the back of her neck pulls her back from idealizing too much.

They wait on the platform and our main character looks at the schedule. 

“Here, we can take this train coming in a minute, and then transfer to the Fremont train,” our main character says to the ghost. The train arrives.

“Are you sure? This isn’t the one I usually take,” he says.

“Trust me, I’ve done this before,” she says, and they board the train together, standing facing each other in the center of the aisle.

The ghost holds onto the metal bar overhead with both hands and our main character uses her body weight to stay balanced as the train is in motion, like she’s surfing or skateboarding.

“I like to pretend I’m skateboarding when I stand like this,” she says. 

He stares at her and she feels like he’s trying to read her mind, read her face. 

“I know you’re only playing, but I’m playing too,” she thinks and sends the thought as a message over to him, just in case he is able to read her mind. He leans forward and kisses her quickly on the lips before leaning back. 

He leans forward, kisses her quickly, then leans back another two times. 

She imagines him stealing a bit of her soul with every peck. 

When they arrive at their stop and walk to the ghost’s car, he talks about getting burgers from In-N-Out. 

Our main character is hungry. “ I could really go for a double double right now,” she says. 

The ghost drives the two of them back to his grandmother’s house.

“Did you still want to get burgers,” she asks as he parks his car in front of the house. 

“Oh right. No. I have sweet potato chips,” he says.

It’s dark outside but not that late. They take off their shoes at the front door and tiptoe into the kitchen. The ghost opens a cabinet and pulls out a half eaten bag of Terra brand chips. Our main character can hear the muffled dialogue from the television in the ghost’s grandma’s bedroom.

They linger in the kitchen for a moment and it’s unclear if he’ll kiss her again. Our main character maintains her cool affectation but feels secretly hopeful. After a moment of standing there on the linoleum in the cold fluorescent glow from the overhead dome light, the ghost offers her some chips. “No thanks,” she says. He rolls the top section of the bag and fastens it with a clip. 

Back in the cabinet, back in the bedroom. 

The ghost collapses onto the mattress still wearing his street clothes. Our main character takes off her skirt, folds it and places it neatly on the bedside table. She gets under the covers, and checks her phone quickly to see if she’s gotten any texts from her boss, or any emails he needs to be aware of, then puts it away. The ghost opens his laptop and plays an episode of American Greed. They talk over the show, resume their usual banter about starting their own cult or a business to defraud people with a lot of money. They remark on the mistakes made by people in the show, what they would do instead, how they’d have done it better. 

Despite all the big makeout talk, they don’t cuddle. Their relationship feels more platonic to our main character than anything else. Tender, like a friend she grew up with who isn’t always easy to reach, but a natural rhythm exists between them. Still, it’s only when they’re alone. If there are others around them, he resumes the role of a game show host. 

The scene fades out with the two of them on opposite ends of the bed looking at the laptop screen between them.