The Ordinary Haunting

13. The Early Morning

New hauled himself up the last two steps to the third floor of his apartment building and let his forehead press into the ground with a groan of relief. I swung his bag around to hang against my back and crouched down next to him, my hand wavering near his shoulder.

"So close," I muttered. I looked into the hallway for some help, but it was nigh on 3am and half the building lights themselves seemed to be asleep. I sat down to catch my breath (figuratively) and assessed the situation.

The situation: almost 70 kilos of drunk human that would pass right through my arms the moment I tried to lift him.

Clicking my tongue at a pang of indignation that was darting through my bones, I curled my fingers around New's elbow and pulled it up. I couldn't hold back the thrill that immediately obliterated that pang when his arm moved with my hand. For a second, our skin was connecting and exerting force on the other, and friction was dragging between us.

Then the next second came, as it always did, and the friction died out, and he slipped away from me. As he always did.

"Ow," New grumbled when his arm hit the concrete floor. His brow crumpled and his eyes fluttered half open. I suddenly remembered the rock I was holding in my other hand and put it down in front of his face. He blinked foggily and raised his head at an awkward angle.

"Right. Tawan." He turned his head to the ground again. I thought he was going to go back to sleep before his neck suddenly tensed and I realised he was lifting his torso in order to drag his hands up by his chest. "The ghost who can't walk through doors."

I picked up the rock and scooted back as he used whatever dry strength he had left to push himself onto his knees. He took a moment to judge and then ease his swaying. I watched on in fascination, never having been one to get too wasted in my days pre-death. Eventually he grabbed onto a door handle behind his head and after a short intake of air was on his feet.

"Whoa, take it slowly," I warned, habitually stepping up by his side. Lot of good I'd be able to do if he fell, I admitted sourly. New was already off towards his door though, his steps more confident than I expected. He even managed to unearth his keys from one of his pockets without much searching, and smoothly inserted them into the lock. As soon as the door clicked, I took hold of the handle and carefully heaved it open, nudging New's head out of the way with what little contact I could make. He shuffled inside and disappeared into the darkness.

"Wait, New!" The door slammed behind me while I fumbled for the light switch. A rustling of fur caught my ears and two small, glowing spheres of silver winked in and out under the living room window.

Finally I got the entryway light to turn on and was met with Luna's stony stare.

"Hi," I said, dumping New's things on the floor and the rock -- somewhat satirically -- on the coffee table. The cat continued to glare. "Don't worry, he knows now," I sighed. I checked her bowl and was surprised to see fresh food and water. Considering our Sunday trip to the mountain and the subsequent two-day staycation in the office (that may or may not have technically been trespassing, I wasn't sure), New must have had someone stop by to take care of her. I picked at my lip and wondered who it was. He hadn't spoken to any of his neighbours in the week I'd been at his apartment, not that that was particularly unusual in big cities like this.

"Blanket." The very object plonked heavily onto the couch. I jumped and looked over to see New frowning at the rock on the table. His face was dripping wet, his hair pushed back high off his forehead, and a toothbrush was wiggling up and down in his mouth. "If you need it, I dunno," he added as he turned away again. Luna gave a strangled meow and sprinted after him. They closed themselves up in the bathroom.

I arranged the cushions of the couch together with the blanket into something of a bed and -- for the first time since becoming a ghost -- stripped down to my boxers. I piled my clothes neatly into a corner (yes, that was also a first for me...in perhaps my entire lifetime) and then huddled down into the thick softness of the wool and polyester. It wasn't a cold night by any means, but there was something achingly comforting about having a blanket wrapped around me.

I wasn't producing any body heat, anyway.

"You okay?"

I jumped once again and struggled to extricate my head from the blanket. By the time I did, New was in the kitchen doing something. He had already changed into a t-shirt and shorts, and when he returned to the living room carrying a notepad and a pen, I could see where his knees and shins were scraped from that arduous twenty minutes we spent trying to get up three flights of stairs.

He held out the stationery awkwardly. "My phone died, so this'll have to do."

I took them from him, which to him must have seemed almost as ungainly as shaking hands with a stick of asparagus, and uncapped the pen. It was red, my least favourite colour pen.

All good. Thanks for the blanket. How are you feeling? I wrote.

New scrunched his eyes and bent over as I held out the notepad.

"Damn, I forgot how bad your handwriting is."

It's not. You're drunk.

"I'm not that drunk... Reading six sentences in your shitty handwriting would be too much for anyone at...what the fuck is the time anyway...3am."

I laughed in his sweet, shameless face. Let's try the stairs one more time!

"Goodnight, Tawan."

New straightened up and rubbed at his neck as he made for the hallway to his bedroom. I quickly scribbled something and threw the notepad at his back. He stopped and stooped to pick it up. I could practically see his head swimming with the effort, and felt a little bad for keeping him from sleeping that bit longer.

But then he smiled.

"Yep," he murmured, flapping the notepad by his nose, tiny beautiful points of light diffused across it from the night scenery outside, "your drawings are much better."

He placed the pad on the arm of the couch at my feet and, after a brief wave at the room in general, left. I listened to his door open and close, followed by his muffled voice as he coaxed Luna into her bed. Given the time it already was, I knew there was little point; she'd be draped atop his head sooner than ever.

Once everything had quieted, I sat up properly and reached over to take up the pad. I looked at the rough, barely five-line sketch of Luna with her paw held aloft, two squiggles of movement framing it.

Yeah, okay, maybe we could do this.

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