Well Met By Moonlight - Page 5
“Ouch,” she whispered.
“Yeah, 'ouch,'” I agreed. “I mean, I know I don't have 'classic' leading man looks, and I thought that wouldn't matter on stage, but I'm starting to think I was wrong about that. On the positive side, looking like a 'threatening scumbag' means I'm generally safe walking the park drunk at night and talking to pretty ghost girls, and where my 'threatening scumbag' mojo fails me, my whole 'poor and threatening scumbag' schtick keeps me safe, but . . .”
“It doesn't get you the lead in Hamlet,” she finished for me.
“Exactly!” I sighed before asking, “Can we talk about something else? Please?”
“If you like,” she said softly.
As the silence after she said that stretched on, I started wracking my brains for a subject change since she was clearly leaving the decision up to me. “Um . . . so . . . I can't help but notice you're dead,” I noted in a less than stellar display of observational skill. “How did that happen?”
The question brought a frown to her face. “Even though I remember you more than you remember me it seems, that is far too personal a question for you to ask me even if you did remember our previous conversations,” she chided. “You might as well ask me when I broke my hymen.”
I blushed, I actually blushed at that. My brain tried to find something coherent to say in response, but didn't have any more luck than my mouth did.
She laughed suddenly, mercifully shattering my confusion in the process. “That works on you every time you ask that question!” she giggled before laughing some more. It was a gentle laughter, but it went on just long enough to remind me that she didn't need to stop for breath. “But still,” she added, sobering instantly, “Do try to remember this time not to ask that question again if you can. Much like birth, the transition of death isn't always pleasant, so the considerate thing to do is never to ask about it without a pressing reason.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“I know,” she said with kindness in her voice and eyes. “You always are.”
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