Page 14 of Baking With A Ghost
I stammer a reply. "Y-yes. How, how do you know that?"
With a chuckle he sits down. "I assume you're waiting for me right? I can sit with you?"
I nod, jaw hanging open at the ease of this guy. His quiet confidence and commanding presence have me tongue tied.
"John, I know your name because the paper ran that article when you opened the bakery. With your picture."
"Oh."
He laughs again, as he removes the teabag from his cup.
"I'm not a mind reader. I just talk to ghosts."
I choke on the last swallow of my tea. He eats his muffin with a small smile on his lips, looking on as I sputter and hack up half my lung.
"Just talk to ghosts. That's quite the lead into a conversation with a stranger."
"I'm not a stranger though am I?" He raises his eyebrow and I take a moment to digest that.
He's right. I've never met him, but I feel like I have. I was waiting for him after all and I knew he was the one I was waiting for the moment he walked through the door. So what the hell is that? How do I know someone I've never met?
"Uh, I guess you aren't." I scrub a hand down my face with a sigh. "But, what the hell is this? Who are you really? It was you who left me the letter." My head swims, like I've taken too much cough syrup. "Tell me what's going on."
He nods, understanding my feelings, yet completely unaffected by my confusion.
"How much time do you have?"
"When will this place close?"
He shrugs, "It's open twenty four hours."
"Then I've got all night."
John
Chosen By a Ghost
AmIreallydoingthis?
I'm about to admit to a stranger over a cup of lemon tea in a coffee shop, I've had ghostly encounters. It's like I'm in an episode of the X-files and Friends at the same time.
"Before I tell you what I know, how about I tell you a bit about me? That might make you feel less weird."
"Weird doesn't even begin to cover it, but go ahead."
"My name is Mike and like I said, I talk to ghosts. But let me tell you how that happened."
He breaks apart his carrot muffin as he talks. His fingers are long and slender, silver rings of various shapes adorn five of his fingers and he wears purple nail polish in two different shades.
"When I was ten I had imaginary friends, like a lot of kids do. I assumed it was a normal thing and never thought anything of it. Only I could see them. We had a blast, Murray and me."
"Is purple your favourite colour?" I interrupt, because I'm hyper focused on how pretty his hands are. Pretty and capable.
He notices my gaze and laughs. "It is. Sort of my calling card I suppose. Signs of purple."
After swallowing, he continues, totally not bothered by my random question. "Anyway, Murray was my best playmate for over a year before I found out he was real. He was a kid who died and he used to live where I lived. He didn't know where his family moved and was lonely. I only found out he had been real by accident when there was an article in the paper on the anniversary of a bad traffic accident and Murray's picture was there."
"What did you do?" I lean forward, eager to hear more.
