Love, Death & Second-hand Furniture | Complete

Hangover Talking

He didn't seem surprised, maybe only mildly amused, but mostly stoic. There was an air of something ancient about him, something misplaced and not quite right, but at the same time, and I still can't explain this properly, it was as if he'd always been there - a part of the air, engraved into atoms. He looked a little older than me, maybe early thirties, but he felt older than the Earth. Which was, of course, ridiculous, because he was wearing Air Max's.

"You done starin'?"

His voice was normal. It was surprising. Not at all like in ghost stories, not booming or screechy, or echoing through the room. He had a strong New York accent. It was all strangely ordinary, not at all out of place - he might as well had been a guy playing ball on the court across the road, or serving coffee in Starbucks, or drinking at the Grove. Except of course he wasn't.

"What the fuck?" was all I could answer, albeit this time a bit stronger.

I often wondered, when Alice and I would watch horror movies in our dorm, huddled closely on the bed and eating stale popcorn, what I'd do in that situation. If I was that girl, or that single mum, or that creepy kid whose house was haunted - what would I do? My answer was always "get the fuck out of there". It was never "stand there and stare open-mouthed". Yet here I was, doing exactly that. Frozen on the spot, mouth wide, jaw almost on the floor. Guess I would be the first to die after all.

He looked a bit exasperated now. "You standin' in front of the TV. Sit down, yeah?"

I did as told, without really thinking about it. I didn't stop staring, though.

He was relaxed, but visibly tenser by the minute as my gaze didn't leave his face. It was a handsome face, maybe not Prince Charming handsome, or Jamie Dornan handsome, but enough that if he offered me a drink at a bar I probably wouldn't say no. Jesus christ is that really where my mind is at? His face? The guy just materialised in my god-damn living room.

A little vein appeared on his temple, and he turned to me irritated.

"Who... what the fuck are you?" I finally managed, and the look on his face turned even more sour.

"'s not very nice, 'what are you' is it?" he answered, annoyed, "name is Bryan. Guess for all intents and purposes I'm a ghost."

I nodded along, like I would to someone telling me I'm a barista at Starbucks. Then I shook my head to wake myself up.

Nothing happened.

Maybe it's the hangover. Tequila worms can give you hallucinations, no? Except those only come in nice expensive bottles, not the $15 crap from the liquor store. So that theory is out the window.

"This's the moment you tell me your name, no?"

No, I thought, this is the moment I go back to bed and when I wake up there won't be a strange man claiming to be a ghost on my sofa. I stand to walk away, but he follows. He walks, not glides, which is strange and unnerving, because there are no footsteps. Only the cold, spreading around him. Wasn't a draft then. Huh.

"Where you goin?" he is unrelenting. It's annoying.

"To sleep. This is my hangover. You," I wave my hand roughly around his figure, "are my hangover. I'm not talking to my hangover."

He lets out a laugh. It probably would be infectious, if it wasn't coming from an apparition created by my poor liver. I promise it a detox week. Lots of kale. Lots of spinach. Is spinach good for that? I don't know. I'll have to check. My brain feels hyper focused but foggy at the same time.

"Don't be like that. S'been lonely, being invisible." The apparition stands in the doorway, blocking my way. I wonder if I can walk through a ghost. That would be rude, no? Even if he is my hangover talking. "I'm not your hangover. The fuck d'you take last night to think I'm your hangover?"

I resent the implications and tell him so, sternly. He comes into my house, sits on my couch, and dares accuse me. The nerve.

If I had some self-preservation I probably wouldn't be telling off a strange man who somehow appeared in my apartment, let alone a ghost. I would definitely be the first to die in a horror movie. Instead of killing me in some low-budget, high-imagination way, however, he puts up his hands defensively and apologises. It's been a while since he spoke to someone, he says. I try not to care and instead nurse the indignation I feel. It might be over dramatic, but there is a god-damn ghost in my living room doorway, so I can be as god-damn dramatic as I want. I just want to sit in my apartment, alone, and feel insulted.

Unfortunately, I am not alone - Bryan's presence is quite unlike what I'm used to, and I'm not sure if I can call him a "him", but now that he has a name and is looking at me all puppy eyes and smiles, calling him an "it" feels all wrong.

I give him a stern look and he relents, letting me through, but still follows me into the bedroom. He tries talking more, so I tell him to shut up. Work can wait today. Perks of being a freelancer. The bed dips a little at the foot, and I wonder briefly how is it that he makes a dent in furniture but has no footsteps, before I force my eyes and brain shut.