Serena grinned enticingly as she set her empty glass on the bar. “Why don’t we take this back to your place?”
“I’d love to,” Phil said staring into his own glass, “but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“But what about your place?” he offered hastily.
Serena’s brow furrowed, then her eyes went wide. “Oh no,” she gasped. “You’re married.”
“But there is someone else.”
“Not . . . really.”
Serena shook her head in disbelief. “I’m an idiot,” she said gathering up her jacket and purse. “I have to get out of here.”
“She’s not—” Phil winced. “I mean, I can explain.”
But Serena was already on her way to the door. “Don’t bother,” she called without even looking back.
Fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door to his dark apartment and turned on the lights.
“You’re back early,” a woman’s voice remarked.
“I know,” he grunted.
A spectral figure glided into view. She was dressed in rags, her skin was cracked and crumbling, nothing but two deep pits for eyes. “So how did it go?” she asked.
“Like you care.”
The ghost considered, then shrugged. “Turn on the TV. I want to watch Great British Bake Off.”
* * *
Story by Gregory M. Fox