October 23, 2015
Serafíne is not yet used to being a ghost. She will be, before this ends. She will become familiar with silence, with the rhythm of her own breath, with the concourse of her own thoughts. With absence, both as a fullness and as a presence, physical, tangible, total. On a day not long from now she'll climb onto a Greyhound bus in downtown Denver and: leave.
No point in staying to haunt the edges of a life that used to be hers.
Or, rather: haunting is such a slushy, stagnant thing to do with whatever remains of one's consciousness.
She'd rather move.
She'd rather do.
She'd rather be.
No idea where the thing is going but hey, that's part of the point. The glass is cool against her cheek, and the dog curls up on the floor, beneath her feet. She has a bottle of Stranahan's and a lump on her back she will remember eventually is her backpack. The moon in the glass, fat and shining, the highway this running artery of light. The staccato pinpoints of headlights that flare and shine like animal eyes in the darkness.
Her breath makes a shadow no one can see.
She curls up, for the duration.
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