Hungry

There is a ghost in my kitchen. Right now she is making a tuna-fish sandwich, or so I imagine. It certainly sounds like she’s making a tuna-fish sandwich: the gentle whir of the can opener as it seduces the can; the spatter of the tuna-juice in the sink; the backwards melody of a jar of mayonnaise being opened. I can hear it all, but she is a shy ghost and will hide behind the curtain if I look in there, and the makings of her sandwich will act nonchalant, as though the furthest thing from their minds was to be the makings of a ghost-meal. They are ghosts too, ghost can, ghost mayo, ghost bread, and a slice of ghost lemon on the side. So here I am, on the outside, letting this shy and hungry ghost have the run of my kitchen. I feel a little sad about her, really, doomed to make the same sandwich over and over again through eternity. But, on the other hand, there are worse things.