The ghost never admitted to herself that she was dead, although some part of her certainly knew it. She kept going to lunch with her friends at the tea room on Thursdays, though they didn't really include her in the conversation any more. She had been the life of the party before, but things had been different lately. She still took the bus to work every day, spent the morning in meetings, the afternoon trying to logon to computer terminals when people got up from their desks. She couldn't seem to make the mouse or keyboard work any more. Several times she'd gone down to IT and sat in the director's office and complained to him, but he ignored her. Tonight she was going out on the town. She wanted to try the new dance place her friends had mentioned. Who knows, maybe she'd even meet someone, someone who would dance with her, someone who might take her home, someone who would, at the very least, look her in the eyes and treat her like she existed. "It's just a funk I'm in," she thought. "I think it's the weather. A change of scenery will help." She couldn't feel the weather these days, and this worried her when she thought about it, so she didn't. Last night, for the first time, she hadn't even gone home. She'd just wandered around the city streets on the edge of a painful admission she couldn't bring herself to confront. All evening and night she gazed in through windows at people, a bad habit she'd picked up lately. She's standing outside the window now, wanting to come inside, wanting to talk, wanting to hold your face firmly in her hands and to force you to look deeply into her eyes and to hear you say, "Oh. It's you."
Hello, friends. Are you well? I hope so.
Later. Love.
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