* COMADOSER.

——– AS  IF  HE  is  the  one  who  is  being  rude .  best  selling  novel  of  when now ?  Her  fancy  book  is  thirteen  years  older  than  he  is .

“ stuart  pot . ”

  he ’ s  not  sure  what  she ’ s  looking  for  exactly  –  his  shoe  size ?  country  of  origin ?  social insurance  number ?

“ could  ask  the  same  ov ’  yourself . ”

^{_{‘   you   really   must   be   empty   up   there.   ’   there’s   a   certain   irony   in   her   words,   her tone.   she’s   the   empty   one,   wandering   this   house   for   decades,   wishing   things   had   gone   differently,   waiting   for   change.   and   now,   here   it   is   :   stuart   pot,   a   man   she’s never   heard   of,   saying   things   she’s   disinclined   to   believe,   refusing   to   believe.}}

^{_{‘   joan.   joan   hill.   joan   frances   hill.   ’}}

* COMADOSER.

 ——–  THAT  SENTIMENT  has  his  rear  end  up .  as  if  the  property  value  of  this  dusty  old  shed  would  go  down  as  a  result  of  the  likes  of  a  sensational  musician  making  it  his  home .

“ the  likes  of  me ? ”

  his  tone  is  somewhat  incredulous ,  though  he ’ s   not  quite  bold  enough  to  become  confrontational  –  even  to  a ghost .

“ i  co - wrote  one  of  the  best - selling  albums  of  2005  !  as  if  the  value’s  going  to  go  down . ”

^{_{‘   don’t   be   so   rude.   i   wrote   the   bestselling   novel   of   1965,   and   look   where   that   got   me.   ’   she   offers   him   another   glance,   the   familiar   measured   expression   remaining   on   her   face.   2005,   that   still   felt   decades   away.   ‘   besides,   i   certainly   can’t   imagine   it   going   up.   ’}}

^{_{she   takes   a   careful   step   forward,   as   if   testing   the   waters,   annoyance   now   tinted   with   a   small   amount   of   curiosity,   a   somewhat   sinking   feeling   in   her   chest.   ‘   who   are   you?   ’}}

* COMADOSER.

——– STUART  IS  STILL ,  as  if  frozen ,  unsure  of   what  to  make  of  what  he  is  seeing .  a  ghost  -  some   phantom ,  the  previous  occupant  of  the  house ?  he ’ s  been told  some  sensationalized  story  by  the  realtor  about  a  tragic suicide  or  something  of  the  sort ,  but  this  is  surreal .

  he  cannot  say  it  is  unbelievable ,  though .  perhaps more  plausible  to  him  than  it  might  be  to  others ,  he  finds himself  compelled  to oblige ,  setting  the  unlit   cigarette  down  on  the  wrinkled  sheet .  he  is  not  a  tidy  man ,  and  he  pays  no  house  staff .

“ a - all  due  respect ,  i live here now . ”

^{_{‘   all   due   respect.   ’   she   mimics   his   accent,   adding   a   slight   whine,   tone   acquiring   a pitched,   irritating cadence.   vague,   transparent   eyes   scan   the   man   before   her,   narrowing   upon   the   sight   of   his   worn   jeans,   tired   eyes.   if   it   was   possible,   her   face   would   have   grown   a   shade   paler.}}

^{_{‘   oh   god,   with   the   likes   of   you   moving   in   -   don’t   tell   me,   has   the   property   value   gone   down?   ’}}

* COMADOSER.

——– IT’S  BEEN  a  long  day ,  and  he ’ s   perched  on  the  edge  of  an  unmade  bed ,  unlit  cigarette   between  crooked teeth ,  cold  shaky  hand  negotiating with  an   empty  lighter .  Sunken  eyes  examine  the  rips  in  his  jeans ,   becoming  a  bit  too  threadbare ,  perhaps  —  a  trip  to  the   shops ?

  Blue  hair ,  bleached  and glowing  like  an  electric   halo  as  the  evening ’ s  last  red  sun  pours  in  through  the   window ,  adorned  only  by  gauzy  curtains .  The  house  had  come furnished ,  dusty .

  He  his  the  roof  when  a  voice  fills  the  room ,  a   woman ’ s  apparition  in  the  doorway .  Ghostly  and   semi - translucent ,  he ’ s  been  warned  by  his  doctor  about  chronic  drug  abuse  leading  to  hallucination .

“ Who ’ s  there ? ”

^{_{‘   me.   ’   her   tone   is   incredulous,   displeased.   in   life,   it   had   always   been   an   irritation to   meet   somebody   who   was   unaware   of   the   audiences   she   commanded,   and   death   is   no   different.   she   takes   a   small,   wavering   step   forward,   her   frame   mirage-like   in   the   late,   red-tinted   light.}}  

^{_{‘   me,   as   in,   this   is   my   house.   ’   or   was   her   house,   at   one   point   in   time.   everything   prior   to   this   moment   of   lucidity   is   one   long,   hazy   headache.   ‘   this   is   my   house,   and   my   room,   and   i’m   telling  you   not   to   light   that   cigarette.   ’}}

^{_{‘   don’t   you   dare   light   that   cigarette,   those   bedsheets   are   silk.   ’   she’s   standing   in   a shaft   of   light,   a   faintly   hypocritical   trail   of   smoke   perched   between   her   fingers,   pale flecks   of   ash   drifting   towards   her   feet.   ‘   mine   isn’t   real,   it   doesn’t   count.   ’   @comadoser.}}