i take a bath. i take very long baths, in warm water. i'm grateful for the bathtub. it's small, but deep. when i sink in it, the water just barely tickles my chin. i stay until my fingers wrinkle. time doesn't feel real under water.
i step out of the bath, dry off, and walk to my bedroom. i don't actually mind that i have to pass through the corridor. ghosts can see through walls, but not through towels.
« robin went out while you were taking a bath, » william says. « something about her school registration. she said she'd be back by dinnertime. »
— is robin the flatmate? i ask.
« yes. that's robin, with a y — robyn. »
i go inside my bedroom, and drop my fuzzy black towel. it feels better. i let myself fall into my little white bed and my white sheets with flowers all over. i don't care if i have to tuck the sheets back in. i'll probably care later, but not right now. i put vanilla-scented lotion on my legs and body, then get up and pick out some dark brown cotton undies. my hand pauses over the cotton pouch where i keep my packer. i want to wear a skirt, and it wouldn't show through a skirt anyway, so i'm not going to wear it today.
i go to my dresser and put on my toner and tea tree oil. i open my drawers and pick out a wig. i'm going to go with my red one today.
i carefully brush the pin curls out of my copper-coloured wig and lay it on the bed. i open my closet and pick out my grey-blue leggings with pale red flowers, a wine-red tulle skirt, and a stretchy dark brown shirt. i sit back on the bed and put everything on. the leggings are a particularly good choice, since my legs are getting so stiff that i don't even have to make an effort to get them straight so i can pull the leggings up smoothly. now i feel like making dishcloths out of my jeans and just using leggings and skirts all the time.
i like how these leggings look on me, really, with the roses in patches all over my legs, like bruises. and they're starting to go well with my skin, now that my skin is getting greyer. i look awesome. i feel awesome.
i get up from the bed and twirl.
— what do you guys think? i ask.
« you look really pretty! » william says from outside.
« garish, » juliet says. « and i thought you weren't going anywhere, dear? »
— i'm not, i say with a little smile. i just want to feel pretty. i don't even have any makeup on right now, and i feel really pretty.
i walk outside, sit on the sofa, and try to pull my legs up. my knees feel like they're creaking, like a hinge that hasn't been oiled for years. curling up into a fetal position doesn't bring the comfort that it used to. it doesn't bring any comfort at all.
« how are the knees, dear? » juliet asks. « still rusty? »
— not better.
« have you gone to the clinic about it? »
he asks this second question with a downward pitch shift at the end.
— they say it's a natural part of the undying, i lie. what an uncomfortable undying. some people get upper body strength or rainbow-coloured eyes or night vision, and all i get are locked knees and hairfall.
i reach under the sofa and pull out a yellow ukulele with nylon strings. william floats over and sits on one of the arms of the couch. he likes to watch this.
— anyway, i'm going to play the ukulele, and it's going to suck.
« meh, go ahead, » juliet says, shrugging.
i strum the strings to check if the thing's still in tune. i can't actually tell, but it sounds about right.
— will you sing along this time? i ask juliet. i start to strum; down, down-up, up-down. d-minor seventh. g, and c, and a-minor. come on, juliet, you know this one. i've been singing it all week.
« i don't sing, » he replies, floating over to the tea table.
— but it's a duet, and you're in the choir. d-minor seventh, and g.
he raises an eyebrow. « that doesn't necessarily mean i can sing. »
i turn to face him and strum out a very dramatic c.
— this doesn't necessarily mean i can play the ukulele.
and a-minor, and — carefully — d-minor seventh. i mess up and put my pinkie on the third instead of the fourth string, and the second string buzzes. i keep smirking.
— c'mon, and sing it with me,
g. i hate the g chord; it is the worst chord; i can never play it right; it is impossible to go from any chord to g. plus i keep forgetting whether it's the third string on the third fret or the other way around.
i smirk at him again, and he sighs at me again.
« sing. »
and c,
— the words relate to the key,
and a-minor. at least this one's just one finger.
with a resigned look he recites, « key. »
— yep! if it's a pattern,
« if it's a pattern. »
— then just repeat after me!
i put the ukulele down beside me, and look up at juliet.
— thank you for humouring me, i say, pretending to sound professional.
there's a buzzing sort of gentle pain in the tips of the fingers of my left hand.
he smiles a little and shakes his head. « i don't know why i still do this. »
— because you love me, that's why, i tease.
« i ship it, » william stage-whispers. he's got his left arm draped across the back of the sofa, and his head resting into the crook of his elbow. he runs his right hand across the strings, and they sound, softly, like if i'd used my pinkie to strum.
juliet raises his eyebrows at him.
— you shouldn't, i stage-whisper in reply, leaning back into the sofa and scooting closer to him.
when i was new here, when i was a freshie, and william wasn't so much of a ghost, and he poltered a lot more — when i was new here, he would mess up my hair and i would feel cold when i passed him and he could smell the tea when i made it. we read sense and sensibility together and laughed at all the funny parts and when we watched the movie, he pointed out the scene where willoughby carries marianne in from the rain, which wasn't in the book. and i laughed, because i'd always tell people that was my favourite part of the book, just to see if they knew it wasn't.
and then there was juliet, and, well, and juliet was my juliet.
now i want to make some tea. i get up from the sofa and pick up my green teapot with the bamboo handle. i rest the teapot on my palm; the bamboo handle might break off and then the teapot would break and i'd have to sweep up the pieces and i'd miss a piece and step on it later when i'm not careful.
— i think i should do something, i say. what do people do, when they get new flatmates?
« what do you mean? » william asks.
— i think i should cook dinner. that's what people do, right? real, actual people. they cook dinner. i'm going to go out and get stuff.
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