Dear DJ,

Remember when we were eating at The Royal and you asked if it bothers me when Debbie shakes her finger at me?

"Nah," I said, brushing shaggy, brown hair out of my eyes as I turned to glance at the ghost of a girl I briefly, kinda, sorta pseudo-dated.

We were never, like, official. Ya know?

You and I had just gotten back in touch not long before this and we were testing the waters of our friendship with the occasional lunch.

Debbie stood out on the sidewalk, her dark hair as curly and frizzy as ever, but translucent. It looked good. Death suited her.

She was, in fact, shaking a finger at me.

"I usually forget she's there," I explained. "You don't have any ghosts following you?"

"Nope," you shrugged, then drenched your scrambled eggs in ketchup. "This kinda stuff only happens to you, MJ."

I then reached across the table and comically wiped red scrambled egg off your chin as if I were your mother. "Look at you, you're such a mess."

We ate the rest of our breakfast-for-lunch in silence, Debbie shaking her finger at me the whole time.

- MJ


Fwd: >