‘I can’t believe you did that.’ Annabel appeared, much as apparitions do, without prior announcement.
‘Sure you can.’
‘No, I cannot.’ Her foot, the left one, pointed at me. It was a solid image against the floor. The second most solid part of her form. It was not so much a foot as a red shoe with a foot image hazy within. For some reason the shoe was high heeled. Perhaps this was to symbolise the pointedness, or perhaps it was to visually indicate Annabel’s theorized sense of style.
‘You didn’t consult me.’ She went on – in more ways than one, as the foot figment lead to a hazy, apparition-ilk leg and that faded under a pale, possibly hazy and apparition-esq dark blue and white dress, the white dashes making floral patterns.
‘This is out of order.’ Her fuzzy neck appeared from the low collar of the dress, she had brunette hair worked into a weave on the right side of her head and, like the shoes, of which there were now two, her lips were red. The lips were the other solid appearing form.
‘It’s not.’ I counted. Surprised to be both fronted with Annabel again, and by the heavy detail. ‘I’m writing a dating profile. You can’t be floored by that.’
‘I am.’ Her front foot twisted on the wooden floor. Impressive, as the remainder of the room was carpeted. Hallucinations really can pull off anything when somebody else puts their mind to it. ‘I expect to be consulted on these things.’
‘You didn’t get informed when I deleted the last profile.’
‘I don’t care when you stop something. I want to know when you start.’
‘Really? How interesting. Somehow I think that is symbolic. Most people disappear at the end.’
‘You’re getting off topic.’
‘Do you know why I’m here?’ She took a step forward. Suddenly her look reminded me of a person I saw on a train.
‘Explain it to me.’ The red of her lips damped. Her eyes were brown. Her hair became a wispy purple hinted white.
‘I was enjoying writing my dating profile.’
‘Because I was imagining someone else reading it, so I tried to entertain them.’
‘And now?’ She stood near me, almost impossible to see. A breeze would have spread her into the wind.
‘I’m imagining you reading this. I think that’s why I lost spirit. I stopped writing before because I couldn’t imagine anyone reading what I had written.’
‘You can’t write for yourself.’ I felt her hold my hand.
‘No, but with you…’ I suppose I am.