so for once in my life;

[wingborne]

Sometimes, Dave gets a hard look on his face.

John can see it, because he can see everything. He used to only see one thing at a time, like one street or one house or one room or one person. Even this, he never saw all at once. Now he can see everything because his eyes have turned whiter than milk and his blood runs cold in phantom veins. But even though he can see Dave’s expression past the thin drawn lips and heavy sunglasses, he can no longer understand his expressions.

He remembers sadness. Sometimes he can see himself in Dave’s mirror and he tries on a sad face, like—bent lips! He remembers those, the comical arch of the mouth. With his fingers, he furrows his brows by pinching his forehead, but Dave’s expression isn’t sadness. Or maybe it is sadness, because people always wear expressions that John can’t remember ever wearing. He can’t remember because he is happy, all the time. When he undresses the sad expression, his face returns to a pleasant smile and relaxed eyes.

But since he can’t read the expression like one of his comic books, he tries to categorize the times when Dave gets the hard look on his face. He gets it most when he sees John floating outside his window, high above the streets where the cars crawl and snarl at each other in cacophonous mating calls.

“Why are you making that face?” he asks one day, hands against the outside ledge.

“What face?” Dave barely moves his head from the computer, where his fingers flick out over old news clippings and decayed police reports, flashing pictures of tire tracks and analyzing angles.

“The face, the one you’re making. It’s stupid.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“You always make that face when you see me like this. Floating.” John bobs up and down. “Is it because you want to fly, too?”

“I don’t want to fly.”

“Good.”

Dave finally glances up from his computer. His dark shades still reflect the pixilated pictures hovering over his blog.

“Why is it good?” he asks, and his tone is—careful, it must be careful, but John has a hard time reading expressions other than happy. He thinks it is careful because Dave speaks each word like they are pictures to hang on the walls, each letter pasted on with painful consideration.

“No reason.” John circles around him, because he can do that now. Dave’s eyes always widen an increment and his nostrils flare, and he thinks that means surprise, or anger, and he hopes Dave isn’t angry. But he doesn’t know anymore, and he presses his cool cheek against Dave’s hand like an anxious pet, trying to move him away from the computer.

John is lying, though he is not a liar. He is lying now because he knows the secret to flying. It is quite easy to fly. He just needed to forget how to fall, forget the ground, forget the gravity tugging down at his feet.

But he did not come back from the dead to teach Dave how to fly.



Dave orders pizza online, and he forces them to leave them in the hall. He slips the tip for the pizza boy through the mail slot. In the darkness, he retrieves his pizza and sits there, eating. The computer flickers, and he stuffs the food into his mouth.

“The sky is nice today,” John says, leaning out the window. “It’s blue. You like blue, right?”

“You’re the one who liked blue.” Dave turns away.

John tries again, holding open the comic book to his face.

“Look, Ghostbusters! Wasn’t that your favorite?”

“That was your favorite.”

John has been dead for a while. He thinks this would be easier with a body, but his body decomposes underneath a tombstone with a touching quote from Walt Whitman, misattributed. Dave doesn’t visit, no matter how many times John begs him to go. He does not understand why, for the cemetery is quite nice, the old trees growing overhead casting shade down on the soft soil. He is happy his body has been buried in such a nice cemetery.

But without his body, he forgets where things begin and end. He sometimes forgets that this is Dave’s calloused hand, not his own, or this was not his white scar flaring through the chest, it was Dave’s scar. He forgets the memory of the hot setting sun basking against the pitch black buildings, with a tall man with strong hands beside him—this was not his memory, it was Dave’s precious memory, and he carefully puts it back. He sometimes sees a boy, who looks quite gawkish and young, sitting in a smashed car with his head drooped to his chest, and he’ll think about this boy for the entire day before he remembers—yes, that was him, he had forgotten.

He’s worried about forgetting everything, one day. On days with strong wind, the gushing oppression of inexistence bears down upon him, and he forgets that he is not an elephant, sniffing around the short trees, not the ant who stares up to the sky, this atom did not belong to him, the memory of crying children should not be touched. Only a single yarn of thought ties him back down to Earth, the image of Dave hunched over his computer screen, not having left his apartment for years.

“Photography,” John says, one day, as Dave highlights another newspaper article and tapes it to the wall. His walls had been covered in posters, but newspaper clippings cover that, their black and white text fading away even in the faint sunlight of drawn window, the corners furling towards him.

“What?” Dave shakes the highlighter, trying to eke out the last brightness.

John is shaking, because this doesn’t happen to him. A strong and clear memory, beautiful enough to bring tears to his eyes arrives in him. It’s a bell, high and mighty; it’s a cry, sharp and shrill. It’s Dave with a camera on a windy day, and the entire memory is faded on the sides, sepia spilling down the sides. Dave has a smile on his face, and that means happiness. The camera is slung around his neck and he’s shouting something from the hill, and the vision shakes, and John thinks, this must be his memory, he must be moving to a spot, because Dave holds up his hand and raises the camera, and John understands for a moment, humanity flooding into him.

“You liked photography!” John leaps up from the bed, dashing through the walls and leaving only blue wisps behind. He grabs the camera from the locked drawer, because his hands go through mortality. In seconds, he’s hurtling through the walls, dashing across the sky in swirls and leaps and dashes.

He comes back at night, when Dave is sleeping on the floor, curled over a picture of a boy with a silly grin and mussed hair. The boy seems familiar, but John cannot place it, and he’s too hurried to care. He wakes him up by blowing in his ear, and drops the photographs down to the floor.

“You like these, right?” he asks anxiously, sorting through the glossy covers. “You like pictures! I remember, you like pictures. You used to take pictures of me.”

“Jesus Christ, it’s three forty in the morning.” Dave yawns like a cat, dropping his back against his bed and glancing through the pictures. John rests on the bed, watching him, because he desperately wants Dave to be happy. He wants Dave to make that same smile from the memory, which has already begun to fade in his intransient mind.

He realizes too late that he’s made a mistake, because his pictures seem strange. He’s lost his human eye to worms on the ground, so there is no focus, no care, no attention. He’s snapped pictures of spirals on a lamp post and sidewalks on the ground, up-close shots of branches and wide angles of the sky, but there’s something so off about them. The humans and human-made seem indifferent, and he drops his head because he’s failed.

“They’re good.” Dave’s mumbling, like he usually does, and he builds a small thin tower from the shiny pictures. His fingers are nimble, only touching the edges, but he holds them up against the electric lights of his room.

“Really?” John drops to the floor, leaning against him.

“Yeah.” It’s not quite a smile, but he can see Dave’s mouth move for a second. “Forgot what outside looked like.”

John sighs in relief.

Later, he has a strange memory of Dave’s face, close enough that he can see the irregularities of his skin, red braces flashing in his smile, and the camera hovering above them. He hears a voice, but Dave’s mouth isn’t moving, so it must be his voice. He’s shouting something and laughing, and pressing his mouth on his lips, and the camera shutter goes off. His voice continues laughing and mocking, and suddenly, there are thin fingers on Dave’s cheeks, close to his sideburns. Those must be his fingers. Dave is blushing, even in the sepia world, and he ducks his head. He has a different expression—eyes slightly closed, lips nervous and twitching, face red.

He wonders if that expression was love.



Dave has not left his apartment in three years, eight days, four hours, thirty seconds. John knows this because he is dead, but Dave knows this because he is alive. He has always been uncanny with time, so John thinks Dave knows how long he’s stayed inside. He hobbled inside with crutches and hadn’t left since, not even with his leg carved out of the cast. The first year, he only sat in his chair, staring outside the window. John had to coerce him to eat, making his favorite cereals.

He thinks Dave is better now, but not enough. He tries to help, because he’s slowly losing himself to the tugs of the wind, forgetting one thing at a time. But he stays, making him breakfast, taking out the trash, combing his hair, trying to coax him to look outside, to go outside.

“It’s a nice day today,” he would say. “It’s sunny, way sunny. Not a cloud in sight. All bright blue. You like blue, right?”

“It’s cloudy! It’s nice and cool, you don’t have to worry about getting sunburned. You get sunburned easily, right? Why don’t you take a walk? Just outside. One block! It’ll be nice, I promise.”

“Wow, it’s raining! That’s great, you can get a breath of fresh air. You have a cool umbrella, right? Oh, I found it for you. I put it by the door, in case you want to go.”

Sometimes, he wonders if it’s better if he left. The dead usually did not remain long in the world, except those angry and bitter and hateful. He met only a few, when he wandered to grab groceries for Dave. He had once passed by a movie theater from a grocery run, still managing three cereal boxes under his chin. Even though he passed it in less than a second, he could feel it. A bitter, sickening rage and hatred, and his stomach churned, and he darted back home.

The hatred scared him—but the familiarity made him sick. He wasn’t the hateful one, but sometimes, he could feel the seeds in Dave’s heart sprouting, hunched over bloody pictures with handprints and footprints. He wanted Dave to be happy, as happy as he was, but the cereal boxes piled up in the sink, the sugary snacks failing to coax him from his hardened shell. Some days, he lost Dave to the hatred, the burgeoning wicked feeling that gripped Dave’s teeth to gritted marks. Other days, he barely won with a clever remark or a happy television show.

He walks outside in the rain one day, staring up at the sky. The pellets of water pass through him, forming puddles down the streets, melting with the rainbow oil. He thinks it’s pretty. He thinks the whole sight was pretty, and beautiful, and good, and he stretches his arms to pretend to feel the rain on his cool skin. He forgets where he begins, so he begins at the buildings that had been built years ago, their brittle brick walls still standing broad and tall, strengthened by the wiry metal for their legs. His middle is somewhere in the street, down the dashed lines that people had painted, the restaurant only three streets away that served food from across the world, little fishes on tiny plates, white tablecloth sewn by heavy machines. He was happy, unbelievably happy, he could hardly tell where his happiness ended. The world was beautiful, and the most beautiful of all were his memories, faded and losing to the slope of time, the ones where Dave laughs in the rain with his hair slicked down across one eye, red sweatshirt soaked from the shoulders to his chest.

He looked beautiful, then, a miracle surrounded by miracles.

“John.”

He can hear the voice from above, and he starts, to see Dave poking his head out the window. He flies through the rain towards the top of the apartment building, reaching out to him from the ledge. Dave’s hair had grown slightly damp, but he has a different expression on. This time, his mouth is soft, and his eyes are relaxed. His forearms are crossed and he leans against the wall.

“What’s wrong?” John reaches out, tries to feel his temperature with his cold hands.

“Nothing.” Dave reaches out into the air, and John can feel where his hand is trying to touch his face. He leans into it, though he cannot feel it with the sensory nerves buried in the ground. But he closes his eyes and imagines it, tries to conjure up a memory of it, and he’s still at peace when he fails.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” John says, after a moment.

“So are you.”

“Ghosts don’t catch colds.”

“You’re stupid enough to be the first.” Dave ducks his head inside, shutting the window. John glides to sit back down on the bed and Dave dries his hair with a towel. He spends the rest of the night reteaching John about a video game, in a voice that says he’s taught him tens of times before. But there’s something soothing in his voice, like he doesn’t mind teaching him again.



John watches Ghostbusters, because he can almost remember it was Dave’s favorite.

“Do you want to bust me?” he asks, pointing to the strange machine on the high-definition screen. “I can leave, if you want. You don’t have to bust me.”

“That’s a shitty movie. You don’t even look like those slobs.”

“The ghosts?”

“The actors.”

Even though Dave doesn’t tell him to leave, John thinks about it. He wants Dave to get better and leave the decrepit apartment. And he thinks he’s hurting Dave, in some ways, by staying. Every time he forgets something, or asks if he used to like something, Dave’s face turns into the sad expression, clear enough that even John can read. He’s decaying faster than his body, and while he’s at peace with it, he wonders if Dave hated to watch.

Dave seems dull about his appearance, never asking anything from his presence. John takes out the trash without being asked, cooks unrequested meals. There’s only one thing Dave had ever asked from him.

“Do you watch me when I shower?”

“No.” John pushes his hand through the refrigerator to fetch the eggs. He expects Dave to be relieved, make a crack about voyeuristic lecherous eyes and tentacle arms, but Dave only shrugs. Glances at the clock. Returns to his computer. John’s not human enough to decipher it, but he wonders if Dave is uncomfortable that he knows everything. He doesn’t watch him shower, but he knows Dave does. He knows he stands there in the white stall, naked and bare, touching his skin. He’s never seen it, and he doesn’t feel anything towards it. Maybe this was what hurt Dave. Maybe his presence wasn’t harmful by the painful decay, but the lack of humanness in him.

John brings him a picture of a crow, because he thinks Dave once loved someone who liked crows, and he thinks the focus is better this time. He tried to imitate the human touch, the focus on the visible, and it must have been good enough. Dave takes a long time in staring at it.

“You should come watch me shower,” he finally says.

Dave takes off his sweatshirt, grabbing the cloth in the back and dumping it to the floor. He unbuckles and unzips his jeans, rolling them down to his bony ankles. He isn’t wearing underwear. He looks at John, and John wonders if he’s supposed to feel something. But Dave isn’t wearing any expression, not even when he steps into the shower and turns the nozzle. He’s become bonier, John thinks, ankles and knees and hips and elbows pronounced. The sharp white scar still remains prominent on his chest, and he has faint marks down his once broken leg.

“Come in,” Dave barely turns, and John is quick to appear inside the shower. The water rolls down Dave’s shades, but he could still see the everything of Dave. But he doesn’t know what it means, not when Dave kisses him on the cold lips, not when he’s pressing him against the wall. He remembers liking the sensation, but he’s decomposing in the ground, and can’t quite feel emotions strongly anymore.

“I wanted this.” Dave’s voice is crooked and hoarse.

“I did too.” John speaks without remembering, but he isn’t a liar, so he knows he’s saying a forgotten truth. Dave touches his hair, leaning his forehead against the cool shower wall where he goes through John’s shoulder.

“I wanted everything. I wanted a house with you. One of those shitty… even an apartment, a shitty apartment, with fucking braying neighbors every morning. Eat take-out every night until you’re pumped full of MSG. Get into stupid shitty poster fights with you like you’re a fucking idiot. Pay-per-view porn until you fall asleep in my lap with that shitty dopey smile.”

“It’s not shitty.” John touches his cheeks, trying to remember a body with warmth and nerves and pumping red blood.

“Fuck. Fucking goddamn!” Dave punches through the wall, plaster falling down to the swirling drain. The showerhead buzzes on, a pleasant rumble that washes down the blood from his white knuckles. He rolls his head against the remaining wall, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck, I loved you,” Dave is pleading now, bloody hand curled inside his wall, “I loved you, doesn’t that mean anything? Doesn’t that fucking do anything? I wanted a fucking life with you, watch you get fucking old, why doesn’t it mean anything?”

“I love you,” John says, hugging him with all the faint memories of warmth he can remember. “Don’t be stupid. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Dave mumbles, shoulders heaving.

“I love you,” John says.



John is forgetful today. He forgets to make breakfast, and forgets he isn’t the one who loves knitting and plants. He forgets to stay in one place, and he only remembers when he’s scattered in the jungles and ocean, and he has to gather himself up again hastily back at the apartment. He doesn’t know why he’s so forgetful today, but he thinks it’s because there’s a wind blowing. It’s not a powerful gust, but it’s a constant wind, rustling the trees and tickling the grass.

“It’s a nice day today,” John says, staring out the window. “It’s blue. I think someone I knew liked blue.”

“That’s nice.” Dave cuts out another newspaper article, adding it to the mix.

“You should go outside.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Working.”

“On what?”

“I was driving.” Dave stares down at the wall. “You’ve been haunting me because I made a mistake and I should have done something and I don’t know what, but I should have. I fucking let you down. I should have seen them, it should have been me. I didn’t see them, was driving.”

“What? No. Is that what you think?” John swoops down, sitting beside him. “Is that the expression you have on your face?”

“Ghosts come back because they hate people.” Dave types on his computer, eyes barely moving. “That’s the goddamn truth.”

“I don’t hate you! I really don’t. I love you, I remember that. I love you. I’m happy, I’m really happy, but I love you. I love you, so I’m here to make sure you’re happy.” John touches his hand, and he must remember his body temperature just right, because Dave’s knuckles slow down from tapping at the keys. He glances up at him, almost imperceptible, but even before his death, John could see the everything of Dave.

“You don’t hate me?”

“No! No, of course not. That’s stupid. I love you.” John sits up, spinning away at the walls. He almost forgets a part of himself with a fish in the sea, almost forgets a memory up on the mountains, but he tidies away the newspaper clippings until only band posters are left on the wall. He wonders if three years ago, something had happened with the white scar and broken leg, but he can feel himself getting lost again, and he has no time to think when he can’t figure out where he ends.

“Then why are you here?” Dave stares down at his hands, and John drops back down next to him.

“Because I love you, like I said. I love you, and I want you to be happy. That’s why I’m here. I’m really happy right now, I don’t remember it, but I’m so happy. You made me so happy when I was alive and it makes me feel really good, now that I’m gone. Everything is great, Dave, and you made it great for me, so I want to make it great for you. You can find someone you love and marry them and have a whole life with them. I don’t want you to always wait for me.”

“That’s what I want to do,” Dave says, voice hitched up. “Don’t tell me to marry someone else.”

“That’s not the point! You don’t have to marry someone else, just be happy. Can’t you be happy? I know it’s hard, but you made me happy everyday. I don’t remember everything, I wish I did, but I know that’s why I’m happy now.”

He thinks his words are lost, and he’s waiting for the ebb of hatred. But Dave only moves one finger, touching the ghostly knuckle.

“Christmas,” he says.

“Christmas?”

“There was one Christmas. Together. You had this Santa beard, looked like an old man jazzed all over your face, but you had this stupid smile. Gave out presents to people on the street like it was raining goddamn gifts. You fucking filled the room with mistletoe, it was like your lips were glued to mine, some magnetic freak force of nature.”

“Oh. Oh, I remember that.” John smiles at him, delighted. “But wasn’t it you who filled up the room—”

“We went to the park. You played on the swings, almost broke it with your adult ass. Made a sand castle, got into an argument with a kid over it. I bought popsicles for you, your lips were all stupid blue, and you kept trying to kiss me.” Dave untwists his fingers. “I let you. You tasted gross.”

“I remember! I remember, I remember.”

“One day, you wanted to play in the rain. Like a numbskull. Didn’t even bring an umbrella, just grabbed me with your talon grip straight out of National Geographic, ran me down to the street, start jumping in puddles and yelling. You were soaked, fucking soaked, and you kept hugging me, getting all those gross soaking action on me.”

John remembers the sepia film, and he fades into the past. He’s spiraling in the air, a gust of the wind, and he glances down at the street. He sees two boys standing there, laughing and shouting. One has a strange smile and messy hair, and he seems familiar, though he can’t place it. The other is shielding his face from the splashing, but he’s smiling, too, a gentle good smile that fills his heart. He can’t place his face, either, but he is happy about their happiness.

He fades, and reappears, but he’s slipped through time and space, because it’s years later, and he’s looking down at a boy who’s staring at photographs. The boy’s saying something, but he stops when he turns his head and notices nobody else in the room. He watches the boy get up, opening the drawers, peeking under the bed, calling out names. The boy glances out the window, rubs his eyes once, and sits down like a heavy weight on the bed. He puts his head in his hands, and doesn’t look up.

After an hour, the boy stands up. He is taking a coat from the closet, and an umbrella neatly placed beside the door. The boy troops down the flights of stairs, each step with a smart smack of his boots, until he gets to the bottom floor and down through the doors. The umbrella pops open and he brings it up, letting the rain patter down upon it.

He steps outside for the first time in three years with tired eyes and a faint smile on his face, and he walks down the road.