Ghosted
Whereas others complain of being haunted, I was ghosted by a ghost. No texts, no calls, an eerie silence in my inbox, getting icier every time I log in to check if there are any messages from him.
We met online, just like everyone seems to do these days. A perfect match! I liked his taste in books, his sense of humor, his old-fashioned sideburns, and he was attracted to my outgoing character, I guess.
We went on dates: to see the movies at the Orpheum, to walk along the seaside promenade, and to scream on the roller coaster rides. Things were going great. And then one day he disappeared so completely, it was as if someone took scissors to my life and cut him out.
“I’m wondering if he got pulled up into the light,” I say to my mother as we sit on the saggy couch in her living room. Wheel of Fortune is on TV, and my mother’s knitting needles clink in sync with the rotating numbers. She looks at me as if to say that this is wishful thinking, that in all likelihood he simply didn’t like me well enough to stick around, but remains silent, and I’m grateful for that.
Later, when Jodie and I meet up for coffee at our favorite place and sit outside, on the little veranda surrounded by the blooming jasmine, I think that perhaps I’m too corporeal, too attached to the many earthly delights for a ghost to find me attractive in the long run. If I were more like one of these girls who look like they were peeled from a page of a gothic novel, pale as paper and equally thin, may be things would have turned out differently.
“Do you reckon he’ll call me again?” I ask Jodie.
“Not a chance,” she says.
Ghost moths circle around the light of the lamp, their wings vibrating in the gathering dark. One of them tumbles down onto the table and crawls across the polished wood, pearlescent dust sprinkling off its transparent body. I squash it with a snap of the laminated menu.
“Now that’s misplaced aggression,” Jodie snorts, and I say, “You sound just like my therapist.”
Moths spiral in the fragrant darkness of the summer night, flicker out of existence one by one.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Laila Amado (she/they) writes very short fiction in her second language, has recently exchanged her fourth country of residence for the fifth, and can now be found staring at the North Sea, instead of the Mediterranean. The sea, occasionally, stares back. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Best Small Fictions 2022, Best Microfiction 2024, Lost Balloon, Flash Frog, Cheap Pop, Milk Candy Review, and other publications.
Want to read more of Laila’s work? Check out their piece from last year’s micro issue!
miniskirt magazine 