I SLAM THE DISH DOWN on the counter in my camper. The already-cracked cereal bowl shatters under my frustration. Fantastic. That was my last bowl. I scrawl ‘buy shit to eat with’ across the list that I never check or remember to take with me to the store.

Picking up the stoneware pieces one by one, I chuck them in the garbage. I shove a hand roughly through my hair. I don’t know what the hell that was yesterday. I went upstairs to chase...

Chase what? Petticoats? Lace? Nothing. There was nothing there. If I’d thought I was going to wake up today and magically be cured without need to go to the doctor, I was sorely mistaken.

I’d spoken to an empty room. At the time, I was sure she was in there, staring out the window. I couldn’t see her with my eyes, but I could tell anyway. I’ve been around enough death to believe in spirits walking between this world and the next.

Then I’d gotten cold, like I was standing in the doorway of a walk-in freezer. I’d seen my breath. And then I’d thought I saw... her again. Pressed against me, face turned up, mouth opened slightly.

My hand moves from my hair to my mouth, and I slam my fingers into my lips hard. The tingling is back. I’d just gotten rid of the damn sensation.

And then I’m sucked once again into the middle of the fantasy that’s plagued me all night.

She’s seated on a log, the leftover remnants of a cut-down tree. The surroundings are almost familiar. Yet I can’t place them, and I’m sure I’ve never been there. Her hair isn’t dark though and her skin is kissed by a soft rose hue instead of being unmarked alabaster. But I know it’s the woman I saw on the stairs. Her locks are like coppery sunbeams, loose and flowing. Her breasts are pressed upward by a low-cut evening gown, and she’s looking at me like she’s been waiting for me her whole life. My breath inward is uneven, jagged gulps of air. She’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

She doesn’t call me Spencer in my dream. The name is something else. I can’t remember it this morning, but I let the scene play out in my head. I let my name be the one that slips from her mouth like spoken sex. And when her dress falls away, I groan out loud. That’s not the only physical reaction my body has to the images playing out in my mind.

You’ve seen too many movies, old man. I grumble mentally, letting my hands find their way to the sink edge so that I can support myself against the sensation of ecstasy assaulting my body.

Get ahold of yourself. This is just your meds. You just need a higher dose or something else. She isn’t real. But my internal assurances don’t change my response. She’s been in my dreams for hours. If she was real...

My heartbeat thunders in my eardrums, and I can feel my blood surging through my body. If she was real... I begin the thought again.

But I remember the waitress and the way her eyes widened when I slid out of the booth.

If the ghost woman had been real, she wouldn’t have wanted me any more than the waitress did. I scoff at my own ridiculous mind-ramblings. I’m suffering from a weird symptom of PTSD, contemplating romance with an apparition. That’s all this is.

Yet, then there’s Sophie, who had not looked at me with any trace of pity in her gaze. Had she seen the leg? I couldn’t remember. Swiping a hand across my face, it comes away damp. I’m sweating, from the strain of it all and not the heat.

Giving up on cereal, I scavenge through the shallow cabinets until I find two slices of sandwich bread, a bit smashed from being tossed about in the wrinkled plastic bag. But added to the piece of chicken I’ve got in a to-go box at the bottom of the tiny, camper fridge, I’ll have a proper meal. I retrieve the meat, slap it between the mostly-flat squares, and take a bite. Sure beats MREs, but it could use a touch of mayo and a sprinkle of salt.

The prosthesis feels odd today, like suddenly the fake leg has grown an inch and set me off balance. It’s all in my head, I know, yet I compensate for the sensation anyways as I hobble towards the door and make my way out into the day. Being outside always clears my head. I stare at the house, thinking about my delusions and my realities.

I guess meeting Sophie affected me more than I realized. After she left yesterday, I’d called the Association-recommended roofers. As luck would have it, the company hasn’t gotten approval for another project they’re scheduled to start, so they have time to come out today to give me a proper estimate and hopefully begin work quickly. It’s a stroke of luck, and I need the good fortune to calm my mind, which is still fraught with delusions and pain. The forecast is clear for the next month, and I want to make sure I don’t do a shit-ton of work on the interior of this place just to have it ruined by a leaky roof. I hope the historical society gave me good recommendations and not total duds for want of some kind of monetary kick-back.

Glancing back towards the stables, I decide to get an estimate on that, too. Not that giving that wreck of a structure a fresh roof is going to do anything to improve it.

I stuff the last bite of bland sandwich into my mouth and begin walking towards the house. I look up at the second-floor windows as I move, squinting my eyes to try and see past the glare of sun bouncing off the glass. No face today, nothing to haunt me... nothing, save for the image of her in my mind. Shaking my head, I ball my hands into fists at my side. Today looks like a long day of hard work.

And that’s just what I need to burn off this infatuation.