Living

The man nods from inside the diner and flashes a smile as white as the snow-lined walkway. I wave before realizing he was nodding at the pretty redhead hopping up on the curb. She rushes into the diner to get out of the cold, and I plunk down on a metal bench facing out into the deserted street.

I've never been good with men, with dating... or the sweaty romping that goes with it. Awkward and overeager used to be my main problems, though I have been told I look like a young Faye Dunaway. Don't know the name? Yeah I didn't either. I guess that gives away that my biggest compliment came from my grandfather.

Death hasn't improved me. At least, I can hope that guy in the diner didn't see me make a fool of myself. Most people have trouble seeing me, even around midnight, which it is. I came out hoping for... I don't know, something better than Grandpa's stuffy apartment. Don't know why I bothered. I'll just wake up back there tomorrow night.

In the meantime, all I can do is embarrass myself.

Not that I did any better when I was alive. There was one guy I clicked with. Though thinking back, maybe the chemistry was all on my side. He didn't even tell me his real name.

"So what's your name, Special Agent?" I inspected the amazingly uninformative card the gorgeous man had handed me. He was in the middle of a stream of questions about Grandpa's death. All really weird questions, but I hardly heard them. His dark skin and curls had me captivated.

"My friends call me Fifty-seven." He winked as if this was some sort of inside joke.

Like an idiot, I pretended to be in on it and smiled.

Then he went on to say a ton of things I didn't hear because I was watching the way the little scar at the corner of his mouth pulled, making his expressions charmingly uneven. If I'd listened, I wouldn't be in this mess.

I probably sound really callous, going all batshit for some guy right after Grandpa offed himself. My guilt over the flirtation was severe enough that I sat down to have tea with Grandpa the next night, despite burying him that morning.

"Try that one. It'll relax you," Grandpa's voice was throaty, raspy. Honestly, terrifying.

I added some powder from the jar to my tea.

I know. I should have listened to Mr. Fifty-seven the self-proclaimed 'paranormal expert' but, considering he said his name was Fifty-seven, I didn't give a lot of clout to his words. Still, Mr. Fake-name said some creepy things before he left.

"People change after a violent death- become fixated on the last thing on their mind."

"Look, Mr...Fifty-Seven...I can handle myself."

"You staying here? I should come check in on you..."

"What agency are you from?" I flipped his card in my hand. "This would be more helpful if it had something other than a phone number." Maybe a picture.

"I'll come back."

He didn't add 'when you're more reasonable' which I appreciated. A guy claiming to work with ghosts doesn't have a right to be condescending.

The point is, I didn't listen to him. When Grandpa pointed to that jar, I measured some into my cup like a good little lamb. It did relax me and made talking to a man with rope marks around his neck less upsetting.

"What were you thinking, Pops?" I asked.

"Tired of being alone. Wanted some company."

"Alone? I came over all the time. Are you going to guilt trip me even after-" I stopped as my lungs desperately struggled for air.