The ball went bounce, bounce, bounce. It hit the floor and then the wall and then the floor again and I dove to catch it before it started rolling to vanish under the bed. Ignoring the bruises, back to lying on the bed. A lazy toss sets it in motion again, bounce, bounce, bounce.
And I think there are ghosts in the walls here. I think they died long before I arrived and they'll still be dead long after I'm gone. I wonder how they feel about the impact, if I can dislodge them should I hit the wall hard enough. The ball is gentle in my hand, rubbery and cheap. My fingers move automatically and it soars. Oh, how it soars.
She's putting her boots on and ignoring me. That's okay. I'm following the ball with my eyes, bounce, bounce, bounce. The click of the buckles go one by one, adding to the echo. Almost a beat to it. I can distantly hear the melody, the guitar strumming to life. Something musical? Lyrics? I hum to myself for a moment, "and the ball went, bounce, bounce, bounce! Bounce, bounce bounce! Bounce, bounce-"
Her hand flashed out and she caught the ball. Empty, my waiting hand closed slowly and collapsed back to the cool fabric of the bed. She rolled the ball in her palm and offered me the joint. The smoke felt good on my lips. Warm and filling. "What's that you're singing?" she asked.
"Ah, nothing," I whispered lazily, eyes closing.
She took the joint back, took a puff, and stood, all leather and lace. Spikes said danger, still dripping with my blood. "The ghosts don't like you very much," I said.
"What ghosts?"
"You know," I waved a hand. "The ones in the walls."
She rolled her eyes. "I gotta go."
I smiled slightly. "I know."
She hesitated for just a moment. "This was fun." Her voice is too level, too flat.
"It was," I said gently.
"Do I just, like lock up?"
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah. Door'll lock behind you." My eyes felt like they closed more somehow, if that was possible, sleep a physical thing flowing through my body.
"Okay," she said.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"I'll text you?" I offered.
"Sure," she said.
I don't think I'm ever going to see her again.
The wheelchair squeaked as I settled my weight onto it, my grunts of exertion the only other noise in the room. I was halfway out of the room when I remembered my phone was back on the bedside table. Did I want it? I glanced backwards. I hadn't plugged it in last night. It was dead anyway. Whatever. I snagged my laptop off the desk as I passed and rolled out to the living room.
I work my way past the table. It's still a little too cramped in here. I really should do something about that.
Cereal hits the bowl, a little spilling out the sides. Ah well. Whatever. I watch an old Simpsons episode while I dig in. It's brainless, really. I'm not paying attention. I'm elsewhere. I'm trying to decide if I'm high or not, if I should wait it out or give in and take more. I can still feel her lips on my neck, my back, my chest.
I place the bowl on the coffee table, half empty. Call it an offering. "You want some?" I ask the walls.
They don't respond. I think they're mad at me.
"What was wrong with her, huh? I think I deserve love."
The ghosts stared back at me silently. Bart's manic giggling was the only noise in the apartment.
"I'll see her again," I said.
Her touch tingled on my thigh. It was almost electric the way her fingers ran down it right to the gap, the way her face fell as she saw my legs.
"Shut up," I told the walls.
Bart said something insulting in reply. I turned the tv off and sighed. Maybe it was a good day to get high.
The air was bitter, that late summer air with just a hint of autumn on the breeze. I could almost swim in it. I'm sitting on the balcony, strumming the guitar. I'm not really thinking. My laptop is balanced precariously on the table, next to a glass of lemonade and vodka. There's music on the screen and I'm not even looking, letting my hands move on their own.
My tongue shifts slightly, dancing with hers because the evening had just started. Then my mouth is open and I'm singing, words pouring out of me. I'm not even listening to them, focusing purely on the noise and the emotion. It's the act of creation. It's the ghosts in the walls because they love it when I make music and they come out to hold my hand and whisper into my brain.
I'm falling like the ball, curving in an arc. I'm hitting the walls and bouncing off, a dizzying array of stands. My phone, recharged dings to let me know I've matched with someone else. I'm ignoring it, because I've found my flow. My heart climbs out of my chest and balances on my tongue for just a moment before it decides to take that leap of faith, and I'm howling not singing.
I don't know how long passes. I just know that I stopped because I was crying, tears streaming down my face, my throat too choked up to speak. The ghosts stay quiet, sympathetic and distant. I can feel them in my shaking hands and my aching legs.
I wipe my face with my sleeve and swallow.
A voice yells out from somewhere below me. "Hey!"
I glance down. It was one of my neighbours. I see her going in and out of the building sometimes. She was leaning against a fence, staring up at me and smiling. She calls again, "You alright?"
I sniffle. "Yeah, I-" I hesitate. "It's just music, you know?"
She smiles wide. "I, uh, I live below you and I love hearing you play."
"Oh!" I'm embarrassed.
"Oh!" She calls back. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you. You're really good."
"Thanks. Do you-" I hesitate again. "Do you wanna come up and listen closer?"
She laughs and her eyebrows flash up for just a moment. "You know," she says, "I would love nothing more."
I laugh and she disappears into the building to head on up.
The ball is still in my pyjama pockets. I roll it between my fingers. The ghosts must know her if she lives below me, because it's the same walls. I turn back to them. "What do you think?" I ask.
"Go for it," they say. "She's into you."
I squeeze the ball for a second and then hurl it from the balcony as hard as I can. I watch it arc, disappearing into the distance.
I don't see it bounce.