Ghost Town

When I walk around my neighborhood, I see ghosts.

There's the pathway from my apartment through the park, where we once walked underneath his massive blue and white umbrella in the rain to meet my parents for dinner, and he held my hand as I stepped over puddles trying not to ruin my new flats. Three blocks further down and a block to the right is the Indian restaurant where we met them. He wore a tie - my favorite one, the skinny black one, that when paired with his plaid red and white shirt, was my favorite thing he wore. And unlike any guy who's ever met my parents in the past, he looked my father in the eye and shook his hand. 

Going back the way we came to the Indian place, there's the Italian restaurant where we met for dinner after I signed the lease for my new apartment. He ordered a martini for the first time, and neither of us knew if the transparent, light olive green color was the because the bartender accidentally made it dirty or if it was the vermouth. He sat facing the restaurant, while I sat facing the street and the August sunshine. I was wearing my little black dress from Express that hugs my body in all the right places. He asked me to take off my sunglasses since he couldn't see my eyes, and he wanted to look into them.

Diagonally across the intersection from the Italian place, there's the Thai place we walked to on one of those oppressive, muggy summer nights where the air feels heavy and time stands still and everyone moves at a glacial pace. We talked about his fear of getting caught in rip tides, a symptom of growing up in Florida, and my love for swimming in the ocean. We made an agreement that when, eventually, we'd go to Florida together, he'd face this fear.

Up half a block and around the corner to the left, is the upscale restaurant we used to mock. I don't even remember how it started, but we did our bit every time we walked past it, holding hands on the way to or back from the metro. Accents and voices being one of his talents, he put on this British, old man voice. I called him "Gerald" and pretended to be elderly and asked him to flag down the waiter, who he called "you, boy," so we could send back my imaginary soup that was too hot. The first time he did the voice, he didn't stop until we were at the metro station two blocks away. I almost fell over laughing, and I had to ask him to stop so I could avoid strange looks from fellow passengers on the escalator. 

Continuing past the turn for the metro station and up the street even further, is the independent movie theater where we saw The Grand Budapest Hotel and our love affair with with Jeff Goldblum began. Across the street is the Barnes & Noble where he'd study during the summer, waiting for me to be done in the lab before we went on a date.

And then there's my apartment itself, littered with memories of us. He helped me carry boxes from his little silver car up to the apartment, and we laid down on the floor in my empty room, looking at the ceiling and trying to decide where my bed should go.

When I walk in my front door, I see ghosts.