Page 17 of Baking With A Ghost

Without another word, I leave the coffee shop and head home.

A gay ghost has chosen me to give him love.

How the hell do I deal with that?

John

There's a Ghost in My Kitchen

Idon'thavetimeto be sick.

My head is firmly clamped in a vice and a cat has used my throat as a scratching post.

My sleep has been shit since meeting with Mike and learning I share my space with a ghost. A ghost who has some kind of unearthly crush on me. It's all so weird, and since I haven't had any sign of Simon lately, I'm starting to wonder if this whole thing is one of those pranking or blooper shows. Will Ashton Kutcher pop out of the closet with a camera and Mike be there with a shout of, "we fooled you!"?

That scenario seems more plausible than living with a ghost right now.

Somehow I make it through the work day and I decide it would be best for me to remain closed tomorrow. Slapping a scribbled note on the door, I lock up and drag myself up to the loft. Hopefully I just need one day to recover. I really should look at hiring help for days like this. I’ll try to remember to add it to my ever growing to-do list.

After a double check in the kitchen to ensure everything is turned off, I lurch my way up the stairs with hopes of crashing into my bed and cuddling with a bottle of cold medicine. Might even live on the edge and ask my orange juice to the party, if I can muster the strength.

Snowball meows as soon as I enter, oblivious to my pain and needs, as cats tend to be.

"I'll feed you girl, but make sure you let me sleep in tomorrow. I have a feeling I'll need it."

Slapping the wet food in her dish, I can't even smell it, so there's an upside to being congested at least. I cover her can and strip off my clothes as I walk to the bathroom. Thank god I still have some cold meds to take care of my body aches and fever. Measuring the right dose, I swallow it with a shudder.

We can send people to space, but we can't make a medicine that doesn't taste like toilet cleaner. The priorities in this world are all wrong.

Climbing into bed, I bury myself under the blankets as sleep comes fast.

Ineedtopee.

I don't want to get out of bed though. I'm too cozy and — a clunk comes from the kitchen. Suddenly the fuzziness of sleep vanishes and I throw back the covers, intent on investigating. Maybe I move too quickly, because my head spins and I reach out to the wall to remain standing. Once the room stops spinning, I notice the glow on my clock says it's 2 A.M.

This time there's a rattling sound and the water runs. Blood thunders in my ears but I remain frozen in place listening. After a few more metallic clunks, silence looms and I quietly pad into the kitchen.

Moonlight shines in through the bay window, enough to illuminate my way as I approach the counter. A pot stands abandoned in the sink. The aroma of chicken soup fills the air and I glance down at the counter to find a bowl standing there, still warm. I force myself to swallow and heat floods my body when I realize I'm naked and probably not alone.

It can only be one person, well one entity, that did this.

"Simon?"

My stomach rumbles with the scent of the soup and I wonder how it's possible for ghosts to cook. He doesn't answer, so I take care of the bladder issue first and return to the kitchen with a fuzzy blanket and a pair of lounge pants on. Why I feel the need to be modest now and cover up, I'm not sure, but it seems weird to eat soup naked in the presence of a spirit. I wonder if Emily Post wrote etiquette on that?

The chicken soup is amazing and just what I needed. I read once, there was something in chicken soup that triggered your body to feel better. Right now, I believe it, because I feel it everywhere. Like a hug from your favourite aunt, it just makes you feel good.

"I don't know if you're still here, or where you've been, but thanks for the soup."

My voice rasps into the empty room and Snowball lifts her head, warning me to keep it down.

I can't explain why or how, but I know Simon is here, so I keep talking.

"You know, after I spoke to Mike last week, it was a lot for me to process. I mean, it's not every day you meet a ghost who likes you. I mean, I assume you like me or you wouldn't be here."

When I finish the soup, I place the bowl in the sink and keep talking. I want him to know I like him here and perhaps let him learn more about me. It's a bizarre, one way conversation, but I think he appreciates it. Obviously I'm only guessing, but I think Simon wants to listen.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you. I just want you to know that I'll do whatever I can to help. I don't know what, but you've been very kind and I feel like you'd be a good person to know."

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