The Almost Rock Star (A Ghost Story) (DRAFT)

The Almost Rock Star (A Ghost Story) 24, White Cubes

Chapter Twenty-Four

White Cubes

I looked at Daith. Deep in my soul, something moved. It was as if all the world stopped and there was just this moment in time, this penthouse, and the space between the two of us. 

It was like being in a tunnel; the sounds of Louis Armstrong’s sonorous voice was distant and everything around me retreated from my awareness, and it no longer existed to me. I was sitting alone in his penthouse, alone with him, and all of the tragedy and drama of the past thirteen days were gone and this was my moment, the moment in which I realized there might be a better half, a compliment of me, someone who is either like me or not like me but surely something to me. If everything were right in this world, this would be the moment in which my “Leader of the Pack” would walk over to me, the sexy, “together,” worldly Allie Swift, take me in his arms, and in some perfect alignment of my Creator’s universe hold me, kiss me and not let go.  

Instead, there was a loud knock at the door.

I exhaled. My beautiful Daith looked at the door. 

“You’re early! Come in, it’s open,” he said loudly.

The door opened and one of the most artificial blondes I’ve ever seen was standing there, in a dress that was too tight and heels that were too tall. I’m not against fashion; in fact, I love dressing up. I’ve always had any clothes I ever wanted, but I did tend toward the more traditional. Not fuddy-duddy. Traditional, like, you know, comfortable. Jeans and a cotton shirt. Well, maybe except for going out. 

“Oh, Daithy!” Becca blondie walked in the penthouse, leaving the door open. She might as well have been a parody of herself. 

Daith was ignoring her. He looked up from his cooking as she got close, and saw the door ajar. 

“Well, did you let the cat out?”

“Daith! Oh, who cares about a cat? You never wanted that cat anyway. You said it was an old girlfriend’s,” she said, sliding her right arm up his shoulder and kissing him, long and slow. It was a smoochy wet kiss, the kind my brother Kenny and I used to make fun of when we were six and eight years old. I thought I saw a look of annoyance on Daith’s face.  I noticed he was hardly paying attention to her and was looking for Shadow. I looked around too, and saw Shadow sitting on Daith’s coffee table. He was staring at Rebecca. I noticed the black parts of his eyes were dilating. All of a sudden, he hissed. Loud.

Daith laughed. 

“I guess he’s got your number, Rebecca,” Daith said. He went to the door and closed it.
“Yeah, Karrie left Shadow with me when she took off for India. She claims she’ll get him when she gets back.”

“Good, then you’ll be rid of that thing.” Rebecca was looking with hate at Shadow, who was sitting on Daith’s coffee table. An old, wine-stained copy of Les Jeux Sont Faits by Jean-Paul Sartre was right next to his twitching tail. I remembered the screenplay from my 10th grade French class. It was one of the classes that caused me to flunk out. I hated the book.