SINCLAIR

     Alexei, for what it's worth, doesn't swerve the car this time. He goes tense instead, clenching the steering wheel as he grinds his jaw. He says slowly, "So you were watching me all day."

     "Not all day," I admit. "I went and hung out with that Maddy girl. They had nothing but nice things to say about you." I inflect my voice, hoping to entice him.

     I wait. Entice him it does not.

     The waiting was perfunctory but I'm not willing to move on just yet. "So the choking."

     He's quick to interrupt, "Is none of your business."

     "I just ask because Nadine seems like she would be into that. I think her exact words were he can hold a knife to my neck as he fucks me. So if that's what you're, like, looking for..."

     "Nadine doesn't have two brain cells to rub together. She needs to worry less about getting fucking laid," he snaps.

     "I mean she's hot if you're into that," I say with a shrug.

     "Into what? Stupidity?" He glances at me, his gaze dismissive like even giving Nadine the time of day in this conversation is more than she's worth.

     "No, girls." I shrug. I wait some more. Anything? Nothing, got it. "I see we're still not getting to the point here. The point being the choking. I'm just trying to understand if that was like a sensory thing or a, uh, you know cry for help."

     "Do I look like the kind of person who's crying for help?"

     I chance him a look. His necks red. He's embarrassed.

     "Do you really want me to answer that?" I ask gently.

     "What I really want is for you to be quiet."

     I hum affirmatively. I can be quiet. I absolutely can do that for him. That is no skin off my back. The problem is even though we're both being quiet he is thinking very loudly.

     "Just to be clear, I wasn't trying to creep on you earlier."

     "Get out of my head, Sinclair."

     "I'm just, I just want the record to show that I am not a stalker. I was simply doing fieldwork."

     He ignores me.

     "It's not like I have anywhere else to go. And while I'd love to terrorize another coffee shop, it's not great karma. And I'm really concerned about my karmic energy."

     He pulls into the underground garage beneath his apartment building, finds his spot, and backs into it. Show off.

     I'm outside the car and waiting for him when he steps out.

     "Alright," he says with a huff. "It's been a long day. I'm done now. Can you go..."

     He trails there and it lingers. Home. There is no home for a ghost. It's everywhere and nowhere all at once. I put on my saddest, most pained expression, hoping to garner even more of his sympathy.

     And maybe he realizes this because he leaves a long pause between us before he says instead, "Don't do that thing where you disappear and then creep on me. If you're going to stay then just be visible."

     He leaves it at that, walking towards the elevator. I grin. A win is a win.

     I get inside with him, standing close, close enough to speak right into his ear, "I just want to say I've never watched you inappropriately."

     He flinches from the proximity. "It's all inappropriate, Sinclair."

     "I mean technically, yes, but some are more inappropriate than others. It's not like I watched you, you know." I shift, moving my eyebrows, insinuating without saying. Aiming for subliminal message, missing it by a long shot. It's clearly very obvious what I mean.

     Still, Alexei is exasperated when he asks, "I know?"

     I tilt my head, and say like it's obvious, because it is, "Touch yourself."

     And he goes rigid, like I've just dropped a bucket of ice water over his head. His lips part slightly, then shut, and his nostrils flare. I can see the muscle in his jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth. He doesn't look at me and I kind of want him too, just to see how worked up I've gotten him.

     I bite back a grin, because, okay, maybe I shouldn't love getting a rise out of him, but it's the most alive he's been all night.

     "Sinclair," he says, voice flat but simmering underneath. "If I were you, I'd stop talking."

     "Well actually, if you were me, you'd be dead," I remind him helpfully.

     He exhales sharply through his nose like he's fighting the very real urge to send me away again. Too bad. Finders keepers and all that.

     The elevator door dings and opens to his floor. He stalks out. I follow. And look, I'm not not thinking about it — what it would look like, how he does it, you know that sort of thing. It's a normal thing to consider. And everyone does it. I'm just curious if he's a spit, lube, lotion kind of guy. Does he sit up in bed, brace himself against the sink, lie on his stomach and rut up against a pillow?

     Forever grateful he can't read my mind.

ALEXEI

     I'm not having a good time.

     I'm trying incredibly hard to keep my thoughts in check, to keep my routine in check, keep my sanity in check, with the shadow that is Sinclair.

     He doesn't let up. That is until I stalk into the bathroom. He pauses at the door as I reach over to turn the shower on and let it warm. I watch him struggle with propriety. My hands are at my neck, tugging at my tie.

     I lift an eyebrow. "So you have no problem considering me jerking off, but the shower is where you draw your line?"

     Sinclair is blushing. A ghost can apparently blush. He bites his lip pink, his hands curving into tight fists at his side. "Sorry for having boundaries!" he blurts.

     I yank my tie loose, let it dangle as I start on the buttons. "You? Boundaries? Seems unlikely."

     "Are you asking me to watch you shower, Alexei? Is that how I get you to like me?"

     His question is a dare. I can see it in the quirk of his mouth, how it lifts slightly. Sinclair is the kind of person who would never be any good at Chess. He's too busy thinking he's gotten ahead, that he's made some transcendent move, too pleased with himself to predict the counter moves.

     I keep my eyes trained on him as I continue removing my shirt, let it hang open as I say slowly, "If you want me to like you, you should stop talking."

    And there it is—Sinclair's smug expression falters, just for a second. He's waiting for me to say more, to add a snide remark, a follow-up to diminish whatever power my words may have held. But I don't. I just stand there, watching him watch me.

     His mouth quirks again, this time smaller, like he's not sure if this is a joke or if I've finally managed to shut him up for good.

     "Noted," he says, voice slightly a little rougher, and a little quieter than before.

     I slip the end of my belt through the buckle, then tug the buckle up the other end. Sinclair's eyes don't move, but I can tell he's trying really hard not to look.

     "You can leave now," I tell him, voice even, unaffected.

     He nods, a quick, curt motion. "Right. Cool. Leaving. I—uh—yeah. I'll just—." He gestures vaguely toward the hallway and then disappears from the doorway.

     I don't move for a long time. Just stand there, fingers still resting against the front of my slacks. The mirror is fogging up now, a hazy barrier between me and my own reflection.

     It's fine. I don't need to see myself anyway.

     It isn't until I'm showered and in bed that I realize Sinclair is gone.

SINCLAIR

     I go because — because Alexei sucks. Seriously. He sucks. Worst afterlife partner ever. Not sexual partner. Obviously. Like companion. Compadre. Ward. Whatever. The point is he's a terrible host.

     And the bigger point, the more important one, is I don't need Alexei. I'm doing fine on my own. I can entertain myself. Which is why I've walked around his block sixty-seven times already. It's only three A.M. At this rate, I'll be in great shape. Seriously.

     Nights moved faster when I was more dead. I don't think I'm more alive now, just less dead than I was. There's a difference. Either way, time drags now. I lap Alexei's apartment again, go into the lobby to check the time, confirm it has been exactly twenty-seven minutes since the last time I checked and decide to go back to his apartment. If only to sneak around while he's sleeping.

     I go through the door the way only ghosts can and meander into the kitchen. It's clinical but not builder grade. Marble backsplash, black granite counters, oak cabinets. I check them for life. Find coordinating dishes, stainless steel pots and pans, cutlery, glasses and mugs. All points indicate Alexei feeds himself.

     I peer in his fridge, expecting it to be empty. And — it basically is. Two rows of Acqua Panna, a lidless carton of eggs, a container of cottage cheese, and a quart of milk. 2%.

     The freezer drawer is better off with packaged meats and frozen meals. The date written on them with masking tape and sharpie reads over six months ago.

     There's no snack drawers. Barely any pantry. Either Alexei never eats or he only orders out. He's basically 5% body fat so I'd guess he doesn't eat.

     I pass his bedroom, heading for the office, but stop, peaking in on him from the open doorway. He's lying on his side, facing the wall. Moonlight slips through the cracks of his blinds, painting stripes across him.

     I step inside, intruding but not about to stop, either. I'm just curious if he's asleep. It's late. He should be. I creep along the end of the bed and when I round the corner, looking at him, the whites of his eyes surprise me.

     I jump. He doesn't flinch. His eyes track my movements. "You left," he says after a long stare between us.

     I lick my lips, sitting down on the edge of his bed, trying not to feel so unnerved. "Yeah, well," I say then stop. "You're kind of a dick."

     "I'm aware," Alexei says with a huff. "Stop looking down at me like that." His brow is pinched over his eye, like he's trying to glare but half his face is in his pillow.

     I'm nearly certain he's telling me to lose the look, whatever look that is, but I decide to take it literally, shifting as I lay down beside him, turning on my side, too.

     "That's not what I meant," he says.

     I grin. "Be more specific with your words, then." And then I add, "Why are you even up?"

     "I don't sleep well," he says plainly.

     "Don't you take something for that?"

     "It doesn't work." Alexei's breath hits my face, cool and minty still. I suck it in like a man starved. "And you?" he asks. "Do you sleep?"

     "Me? The ghost?" I shake my head. "Not at all."

     Alexei groans. "So this is what I have to look forward to? Endless nights with you?"

     "And days," I jeer. "Consider me 24/7 surveillance for your immediate future."

     "Overjoyed," he says sounding tired even if he can't sleep. He looks it, too. The shadows under his eyes are intense.

     "Have you tried putting on some white noise or rainforest sounds? Maybe that could help."

     He opens his mouth to say something, a sharp look in his eye and then stops.

     "What?" I prod.

     "I was going to say something cruel, but I'll refrain," he says honestly. "Lest I run you off again."

     I let his words settle and a slow grin inches across my face. "I know that was your attempt at a jab, but it honestly sounded like you don't want me to leave."

     He glares immediately, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

     "It's okay," I say quickly, intending to ride this out as far as I can. "No need to deny it. Enjoying your friendly neighborhood ghost's company is nothing to be ashamed of."

     Alexei shakes his head, but his expression has softened. He sighs. "Were you like this when you were alive?"

     "Like what? Funny? Yes."

     "No, a lot."

     "I had vigor, yes."

     I get a smile out of him. Small and tight-lipped, but a lift of either end that's promising. He shifts, adjusting his head so it's hanging off the edge of the pillow. I try not to notice how this puts him in closer proximity to my face.

     "Will you tell me how it happened?" he asks quietly.

     I'm taken aback by the question, by the lingering intimacy of it, like he asked me to strip in his bed. I clear my throat. "Yes."

     His eyes trace my face and I'm throttled by the urge to touch him, as if I need the surety that he's real. Or that I am. That we're both existing in this moment.

     "But not tonight," he says finally, reading me so easily it's almost embarrassing. "You're not ready."

     "Neither are you," I tell him carefully. "It's not a happy story."

     "Well you're dead so I didn't think it would be, Sinclair," he says pointedly. "But I won't prod. Tell me something else, then. I fear we're going to be lying here for a while."