TRAYS

It's a ghost….Jesus fucking Christ.

"You have a talent for dialogue but not you know like lofty concepts," that's what I thought he said.  That's when the sun came out in the way it sometimes does on like a really rainy day.  You know, like unnaturally in a way. Like it bleeds through the clouds and intrudes on the gloom.  Not that you wanted or liked the gloom but like on a really rainy day you get accustomed to it--you get used to the barometer'ed headache and the nausea that comes along with it. And the neighbor walks his dog in the misty rain and the dog shits on the curb and everyone just keeps moving like the turd will somehow dissolve in the moistured air.

"A talent for dialogue.  Maybe someone will hire you to write dialogue."

The ghost in on heroin.  The ghost is all hopped on the aitch.  Look at him lurching and bumping into the furniture.  A lamp teeters and the little chain under the shade makes a gentle tinkling noise like the tiny river of rainwater in the downspout if you really were able to listen closely.  The ghost mumbles indistinctly and exhales some greenish vapor that makes you drowsy.  You gotta be careful.  I whispered in the ear of the ghost which is not an easy thing to do because you can't really make out the ghost's features, not all the way.  You have to use your imagination and then just start talking, really low.  I say "remember the back porch, remember the endless walk in the woods?  We're still there walking…there's a dead dog there in the leaves, like a brown rotting log with a stomach full of maggots."  That makes the ghost's lips pull back like sardines on a white subway tile mosaic of teeth.  The lurching stops.