He never knew a ghost could be so alive. While he sat morose in black, she danced around in day-glow colors so bright her shirts looked like they needed electricity. When he observed life unfolding around him, certain as most ghosts were that he saw the tangled and intricate workings of it click like the sprockets of a mechanical watch, she jumped into the works and spryly shot her hands through the spinning spokes like it was a game.
Because it was to her. She wasn’t an unobtrusive audience to what surrounded her. She wiggled her fingers in people’s faces. She mooned sour-faced old farts. She’d follow one person around for days (just as he followed her,) learn everything about them and move on to the next.
“How can you get so invested in these people?” he asked.
“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one who’s still breathing.”
