Ghosts In Her Bed

Ghosts In Her Bed is part of a series of essays/short stories from a body of work I am writing entitled Butterflies Crossing Highways. Additional stories will be added here as they are written and completed. Thank you for reading.

He told her that she was too dense to be a ghost, but she felt like a shadow of herself. Memories lingered around her and swirled in her mind as her leg crossed over his chest, his hands running up and down her calves in a motion similar to a pianist stroking ivory piano keys. She wanted to be his instrument. They talked, and she was there. She loved their conversations about life, consciousness and creativity. They could also laugh together, how long since she met someone that also made her laugh and who she could be funny in front of. She was more more present and herself with him than she had been with a man in years. She often morphed to be with a man, became more serious, subdued and she knew this was why things didn’t work out. They were in her hotel room on a sunny afternoon, laying side by side on the bed. It was romantic, but it wasn’t going to go anywhere, but it was special. She thought he was special. Different and honest about his belief in aliens, other life form and seeing the future. She believed him because she believed in more too. She believed in God and much more than human existence. As they laid side by side they meditated together. He was anxious and she cared. But after that was done she didn’t want to wait, she wanted to be closer. She got on top of him and took her shirt off. Unashamed, sunlight filtering through the shades, the scars on her breasts and back visible even to her as she looked over her shoulder in the vanity mirror beside the hotel room bed. There was cigarette smoke lingering in the air, and she breathed it in as it leaked under the hotel room door from the pool patio. The sound of splashing and a child’s voice could be heard. And as she straddled him, he smiled at her, broadly, and happily. He called her woman as he touched her shoulders with tender masculinity. She felt wanted and she could feel him between her legs. He was real too. She closed her eyes and felt his breath on her face, in her hair, and his mouth on the back of her neck. They didn’t sleep together that afternoon, in the lingering cigarette smoke, on the creaky bed, with splash sounds and children’s voices in the near distance, shaded sunlight on her body. But they kissed. She was full listening to their heartbeats sync and feeling the sweat on their skin meld together. This was unexpected and it was exactly what she needed even if it didn’t last. She didn’t expect this and she didn’t expect him.

When they met it had been 2 years, 11 months and 22 days since she had slept with anyone. The last time she had sex it was a one night stand with a former cocaine addict who rushed out of her apartment, asked her to dinner in the same breath as he said goodbye; later that week cancelling and then ghosting her. It had also been 3 years, 9 months and 3 days since someone had slept next to her in bed after having sex. She often wondered how many women had ever known someone for 15 years, slept next to them and felt like they couldn’t be further apart? She saved all of those text messages, from Mr. 15 Year. Some were angry and some were kind and full of hope, but when she got on the plane two weeks ago she deleted all of them. She deleted his words. She deleted him.

For the last 8 months she was seeing a man that she never slept with. What started as dating turned into an odd situation with no name. He'd later call it a friendship, but she didn’t kiss male friends on the mouth or let them pay for dinner and drinks. For her it was confusion, and she also knew it was her fault. They cooked together, gave one another gifts, and she met his parents. They slept in separate rooms and every time they went to bed, she closed the door to cry; believing that was good as it would get for her. It’s why she stayed as long as she did. I was easier to lie to herself and believe things would change when she very well knew that they wouldn’t. Sometimes it was easier to tell herself that she didn't deserve what she actually wanted.

But that afternoon, in the hotel room, in the lingering cigarette smoke, on the creaky bed, with splashing sounds and children’s voices in the near distance - with shaded sunlight on her body - she didn’t feel like a ghost. And he didn’t either. But ghosts were in that bed with her, alive in the lingering smoke. She thought she deleted them all but it turns out that she didn’t. Not yet.