ALEXEI

     In Loving Memory of Sinclair Romano

     I track his jaw with my eyes to the soft curve of his earlobe. Rounded glasses slipping down his nose. Same dark brown hair swooping across his forehead, a deep side part, longer in the front and cut short across the back.

     But hair is hair. Everyone has hair. And deep blue eyes, full lips. It's the tattoo on his neck, the long stretch of a wing as it folds across his skin and disappears behind him. It's the same wing of the same bird on the ghost hovering over my shoulder.

     His breath is cold. How can a ghost have a breath? "That's a damn good photo of me," he says, but there's something wistful in his tone.

     I clear my throat, trying to shift away from him. "So how'd you die?"

     The ghost flushes.

     "Well that's kind of personal don't you think?"

     "You're a ghost standing in my office showing me your obituary. Does it get more personal than that?"

    "Fair enough," the ghost says, reaching over to slap my laptop shut. "Do you have enough screens in here?"

     His eyes bounce between the two sleek desktops propped on stands and then the laptop. "Like this feels a bit excessive. Even if you were like an iPad kid. Do you have an iPad? I bet you have an iPad, too."

     I push my chair away so I can stand, taking a healthy step away from the ghost. I grab my laptop and slip it back into the stand with my other laptop, and yes, an iPad. "It's for my work," I say.

     "Do you repair other people's laptops? Oh, wait, you're one of those people who buys broken laptops, fixes them, and sells them as refurbs, right? I feel like that could be fairly lucrative."

     He's excited when he speaks like he's just uncovered a mystery. I shake my head, unamused. "No," I say. "Now," I pause with my gaze on him. I wonder if he died in these clothes. "Now I think you should leave."

     He frowns. It's not at all amusing to me that a ghost can frown. That I'm maybe accepting the fact he's a ghost. No, I think. He's from my subconscious. Had I seen his death on the news, maybe? In the paper?

     "You want me to leave even after I just proved myself?" he asks. His lips are already unnecessarily pouty. He doesn't actually need to pout but he's doing a big show of being sad. Am I meant to befriend a ghost? When did my life became the live-action Casper?

     "I still don't think you're real. You're in my head."

     "I'm not in your head, bro," the ghost says.

     I pin him with a look. Bro?

     I've never called a single person bro in my life. He can't be something I've conjured if he's not using my lingo. Which means he's sentient, or very nearly. Which means he exist outside of my mind. Which means I'm surely crazy.

     I suddenly feel dizzy and have to close my eyes to fight the urge to collapse. Turns out I don't fight hard enough.

SINCLAIR

     It is crazy how quickly he falls. Like a heaping bag of bricks. Kerplunk. In movies, when people catch someone before they hit the ground — I'm starting to question how realistic that is.

     He doesn't come to as quickly, barely opening his eyes. They're little slivers of white, they're so light. "Don't move, you're bleeding," I say, my hand pressing against the back of his damp head.

     He doesn't heed my instructions, jolting upwards. He groans and sinks back into my hand. The blood has pooled on his floor. It looks like a crime scene. Like my crime scene.

     He makes some incoherent noises, fading in and out of consciousness for a moment. "Do you have a first aid kit?" I ask when he's back with me. "Or should I call an ambulance?"

     He knocks out again so I make an executive decision, leaving him on the floor to ransack his medicine cabinet. He doesn't have anything useful in it but there's a hall closet where he stores his linen and towels, folded neatly, reminding me keenly of my mother. There's a red box in there. I take it back to his office.

     He's awake again, trying to sit up but his elbows slipping in his blood. "You should stop trying to move. You keep passing out."

     He doesn't say anything, eyes darting around the room wildly. He looks confused. I crouch down on the floor beside him. I've already got his blood on me and while I'm not all that concerned about why I can get his blood on me, it certainly wasn't like this just a week ago.

     I take a bulky dressing out and press it to the back of his head. It looks like it's already clotted, though. "Oh, I think it stopped bleeding," I note brightly. "Made a real mess, though."

     "Help me up," he says, finally some intelligible words.

     "Please," I say but help him to his feet. His pale hands are stained with his blood, and the tips of his fingers have gone cold.

     He lets me walk him to the bathroom. He's gone eerily quiet again, the look on his face impassive. He doesn't glance at his reflection when he passes the sink, moving towards the shower. He cranks the nozzle, leaving the door open so the steam starts filling the room. I'm surprised when he lifts his shirt without hesitation and removes it.

     I avert my gaze to the bathtub. Apparently even in the death I still have some propriety. "I'd like to give you some privacy," I find myself saying. My hearts beating too fast for someone who's not supposed to have a heartbeat. "But I'm concerned about you passing out again."

     When I glance back at him, it's only to glimpse a flash of pale skin as he steps into the shower and closes the door. I swallow, trying not to think about it. At face value, death is lonely. Lonely for the person who's gone and for the people left behind, I suppose. It's even lonelier when you're reminded of all the things you're missing.

     I sigh and lean against the sink, waiting for him. Since I've got him cornered I say, "Alexei, I know this is weird. I mean, I'm sure it's pretty scary. But it's not like I can pick and choose who sees me. I'd probably have picked someone from my past life then, you know?"

     When he doesn't say anything, I keep going. I'm good for conversation. Death has made one-sided conversation a freaking breeze. I got this in the bag. Alexei could never talk to me again. I'd survive. Or, not survive rather.

     "So what is it that you do exactly? You never said. But I'm assuming it's not refurbing laptops. No? I can totally guess. I love guessing. I am incredibly adept at making educational guesses. Hm, so you dress very business-like. Could be a finance bro. Business bro. Multiple laptops. Maybe stocks? But you also remind me of Mr Robot so maybe you're in tech. I can't stop thinking laptop repairs..."

     "Anyway, am I getting warmer?"

     The shower shuts off and the door slides back. I hear it. I don't look. Damn morals, of all the things to carry over in death.

     I don't want to look but then there's nothing I can do but look when Alexei steps in front of me, so close his damp skin thickens the space between us. "Stop. Talking."

     His words are crisp and his breath is warm on my face. I don't move my gaze from his. The color has returned to his cheeks and his eyes have darkened in this light, cool metal grey.

     I open my mouth and he has the audacity, the gall, to hold his finger up to my mouth, pressing it against my lips. "No, no. No more questions. No more observations. I am going back to sleep. And whether you're real, or not, I want you gone."

ALEXEI

     I don't sleep. Instead, I toss and turn in a state of unrest. The back of my head drums painfully and I wince every time my scalp brushes the pillow, putting pressure on the laceration.

     When the sun starts peaking through my blinds, I know it's too early to be up but I can't lie here pretending to sleep anymore. I sit up, stretching and groaning at the tension drawing up the back of my neck. I lean over in bed and look down the hallway. No ghosts in sight.

     Since I showered last night, thoroughly throwing off my routine, I shouldn't need to shower again. I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I get dressed in a corner of my bedroom. Starchy white button up, grey herringbone slacks, tie — no tie. I settle for the matching suite jacket. Grab a scarf and my coat out of the closet, my bag by the door. I leave with no ghosts trailing me.

     I'm ahead of schedule but even if I wasn't I'd detour to Beans, the family-owned coffee house on the other side of town. I shouldn't have the caffeine this early, before food and with medication, but with the complete lack of sleep and the extra time I have, the choice is out of my hands. I'll be dragging through my meetings without it.

    My fingers are curled into my palms, scratching at the skin as I walk in. But the coffee house is moving as expected, the line's trudging along, and there's no errant ghosts causing chaos.

     Yesterday was a fluke. My medicine was off. I must have double-dosed.

     I get my coffee and then I'm parking underneath our building in my assigned park. The sign says A. Eriksson. It's close to the elevator, a bonus that came with my most recent promotion.

     Nelco is the leading cybersecurity firm because of me and they know that. If I walked today, all my clients would come with me. Not because I'm particularly charismatic and they enjoy our interactions. They probably don't. But they appreciate the fact I've unsunk their sinking ships where most would have told them to pay to patch the holes.

     I think about the crusty scab on the back of my head. I have a patch of hair that's tinted brown. The injury is obvious. I debate going to get a haircut, cutting it all off. I don't like having a reason to draw attention.

     "Morning, Eriksson," Maddy calls from the doorway of our kitchen. She's eating a protein bar for breakfast. She's always the first one here and the last to leave. It's the burden of being a woman in this field. You always have to go the extra mile only to go unnoticed.

     I nod at her, and then tuck my chin, looking at the floor. My office is at the back, and around the corner. Away from everyone else.

     There's too much glass in the office, most of the rooms with unobstructed views. My office included. It's why I like that I'm at least isolated from the rest, and since it's south-facing, and overlooking a park, I get little sunlight during the day.

     I get to my door, unlock it, and step inside. The shades are drawn to the ceiling, giving the room the mildest of glows. The cleaners must have left it like that. I usually keep tehm shut. It's cool and it's quiet. I welcome the familiar.

     But then my chair spins around and the fucking ghost sitting in it grins at me.

SINCLAIR

     In my defense, how am I supposed to just leave this guy alone when he is the only person on earth (assumingly) who can see me?

     That's like spitting on fate. Or whatever the hell the gods have cooked up.

     I'd given him the semblance of space last night. Did a mild disappearing act. Pulled an Edward Cullen and watched him (mostly not) sleep. That was just precautionary. He had a head injury, after all.

     I'm dead and yet somehow he can see me. A human can see me, and talk to me, and touch me. That's not the kind of thing you just let go of and ignore. Unless, of course, Alexei isn't human, either.

     I probably shouldn't lead with that, but I do, "Hey, so you're human right?"

     Alexei's standing in the open doorway of his office, staring, mouth gaping a bit. I watch him ease the door shut behind him. His movements are slow, unnaturally restrained. He walks over, sets his bag down on the floor by his desk, and walks around it to where I'm sitting in his chair.

     He grabs the arm and shoves it, forcing me to face him. I raise an eyebrow curiously (and curiously turned on a bit, which is a fanatical experience when you're dead.) Alexei braces his arms on either sides of the chair and leans down, hovering in front of my face. His breath is warm, minty.

     "Get. Out. Of. My. Life."

     I swallow and then lick my lips, searching for my voice. "So human, I take it."

     Alexei's gaze strains, his eyebrows coming down hard. He looks fucking lethal like this. "Are you a demon? Is that it? Attached to me and sent here to drive me fucking nuts?"

     "Funny," I say grinning. "I'd hope to have some powers in that case. And in any event, I'm not even trying to drive you nuts. Like let me put in some effort in that case."

     "I don't want you here."

     For some reason that stings more than it should.

     "I don't want to be here," I snap back. "But I am. And unfortunately, you're the only person who can see me. So. I don't know. Let's figure out why that is and maybe I can finally fucking move on."