Eight Dates with the Dead

When Carla first appeared, I was so overjoyed I completely forgot she was dead.

"A shrine to me, Ian?" I heard her say. "Have you gone nuts?"

To be clear, I didn't actually see Carla—she was only a shimmering wrinkle in the air, but it was her figure. I didn't really hear her either—her words formed in my head like a remembered conversation, but it was her voice. She was there. Even her scent was there—a mix of her overpriced shampoo and the natural aroma of her skin that, until that moment, I hadn't even realized I had missed. Carla's presence filled the room and filled my heart, like she had every day we spent together before she died three years before.

She appeared just after I had lit the last candle on my corner display. Tearing my eyes away from her wavering apparition, I stepped back to survey what I had assembled. It wasn't a shrine. It was only favorite photos of her, votive candles, fresh flowers, and heart-shaped glitter sprinkled over a cream tablecloth covering the corner table in the living room. Okay, so maybe it did look like a shrine.

"You're not here," I said. "It's only my grief. Or I'm having a stroke."

"You're thirty-five, Ian. You're not having a stroke. I'm here. Well, as much as I can be anywhere."

I staggered to a chair and fell into it, squinting and rubbing my eyes as Carla's spirit flowed after me, drifting and gathering like smoke.

"So it's not a stroke," I said. "Then I've gone insane. That's fine. That's perfectly fine if it means you'll be with me now. They can lock me away and we'll be together forever."

"Oh, stop being so pathetic, Ian. You're better than that. I can't stay. But I can't move on, either. Not until you let go of me and find someone else. It's okay. It's time."

How could she say that? Didn't she love me anymore?

"I could never cheat on you," I said.

As much as it's possible for a formless phantom to roll their eyes, Carla managed it.

"It's not cheating," she said. "We're not even married anymore. It's 'Until death do us part,' remember?"

"I don't care," I muttered. "No one can replace you. You're my soulmate. My one true love."

"Your first true love, Ian. Somewhere there's someone out there who'll make you just as happy. Someone you'll make happy, too—as happy as you made me every moment of our ten years together."

I returned to the corner table to adjust the angle of a silver-framed photo—my favorite: the selfie from when we met during frosh week, grinning with dirty faces after the game of mud ball our team had just won. Falling over each other in the muddy field was a hell of an introduction and we became instant friends, hanging around together or with our gang of friends. In second year, I found the courage to ask her out, to which she replied "finally!" and almost knocked me to the floor with a kiss.

Ten years together. It had seemed like only months.

Carla's presence moved behind, embracing me like a blanket fresh from the dryer. I couldn't feel her touch, but she radiated deep feelings of love and caring and concern.

"We had our time," she said. "It was wonderful, but now you need to stop moping and live again. You have so much to offer. And you deserve to be happy again. Go find your next love."

I turned, aching to hug her, but there was nothing to hold. Dejected, I faced away with a sob.

"Even if I wanted to, Carla, dating in your thirties is a nightmare. And I'm just as self-conscious talking to women as I was with you."

"Let me help."

"Help?" I said, incredulous. "How can you help? Have three spirits visit to teach me how to date women? A ghost of hot dates past, hot dates present and hot dates yet to come?"

Even as a phantom, Carla had her same snorting laugh.

"You dork," she said. "I can encourage you. Guide you a little. Play Cyrano to your Christian when you get tongue-tied. Tell you if your dates seem a little off. I don't know. Something. Because you're not doing anything by yourself except mope."

I sighed. "Why now, Carla? Why are you back after all these long, lonely years?"

"I never left, Ian. I've been with you every day, watching. We're tethered. Wherever you go, I'm yanked along behind like... like a balloon on a string. I don't know how it works, but it took this long to gather enough energy for you to see me. Maybe it's because you're moping extra hard tonight. Because it's—"

"A week before Halloween," I said, sighing. "The night of the crash. Like I could ever forget. But why are you tethered?"

"Because you won't let me go!" she wailed. "You don't go out. You don't see our friends. You mope and pine and feel sorry for yourself. And jerk off. Oh my god, Ian, it's not healthy to jerk off that much."

I shrugged. "I have to get relief somehow. Luckily I have plenty of fond memories. You were such a sexy, dirty girl."

"And you were the best lover I could ever have dreamed of. But it's not just me you've been thinking of: you've fantasized about my cousin Ella, that girl at the coffee shop who gives you the eye. And Edna from across the street. Ian, what the fuck? She's got to be sixty!"

I blushed. "Yeah, well, she's still pretty hot."

"It's not healthy, Ian. You need sex almost as much as I did. And you need love. You have to get out there!"

The doorbell rang. When I went to open it, Carla's presence followed. It was wonderful to have her with me again, ephemeral though she was.

Outside, the October wind swirled leaves under the streetlights. On the step was a guy in his early twenties, kind of scruffy, kind of shifty looking.

"Collecting for UNICEF," he said. Instead of one of the little pumpkin-colored boxes I had every Halloween as a kid, the guy held out a can with a smudged black-and-white UNICEF label glued on it.

"Halloween is next week," I said. "And aren't you a little old for this?"

He shifted from foot to foot, avoiding my eyes. "My kid sister's too shy to go door-to-door. And they're allowed to collect all through October."

It seemed lame, but the guy looked down on his luck. Whether he was telling the truth or he just needed some help, fine. I dug into my pocket for some cash.

He looked past me into the house. "Hey, can I use your bathroom?"

I debated whether to let him in, then Carla's presence flowed past and gathered around the guy in a hazy aura. He shivered when she disappeared inside him.

Seconds later, he wobbled when Carla re-emerged.

Fear and anger radiated from her, visceral enough to taste. "Don't let him in! It's a home invasion! His friends are hiding around the side of the house. Lock the door and call the police!"

Slamming and bolting the door, I grabbed my phone just as the guy began kicking and banging. Shouts from more people rang from outside.

~~~~

A police car must have been cruising nearby. The guy and his gang scattered into the night when moments later, flashing lights appeared. The cops took my statement and said there had been break-ins and a swarming in a neighborhood nearby.

When they left, I turned on the outside lights, checked that the windows were locked and emailed the community watch association with news of the event and a description of the man.

The excitement over, I collapsed on the couch, by habit leaving a space for Carla beside me. Of course, she didn't need it. Her presence wobbled and flowed in front of me.

"Carla, how did you know? What did you do?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "I went near him then somehow I was in his head, looking out of his eyes, feeling his fear and his menace. I could tell what he was planning."

"You read his mind?"

"It was mostly feelings. Almost like tasting them. It was so creepy!"

I smiled. "You're a ghost and it was creepy?"

"I'm still me, Ian. This entire experience has been non-stop creepy."

"Yeah," I said with a sigh. "I guess it would be. Thanks for looking out for me."

"You're still way too trusting. I love that about you, but I worry."

"You always did. Hey, can you do anything else? Throw things around? Talk to animals? Because the Wilsons got a new cat and it's been shitting in our flowerbeds."

"Ian, I don't know! It's not like there's an instruction manual. After the funeral, I woke up here in our house and I've been tugged around behind you ever since. I've yelled and tried to touch you, but until tonight, all I could do was watch."

Taking a deep breath, I stretched my arm along the back of the couch, dismally aware of the empty seat beside me.

"Well, you're here now," I said. "We're together. We don't ever need to be apart again."

"No, Ian," she said. "You must let me move on. You must!"

"How can I do that? You're all I ever think about," I said.

"We get you out there," she said. "And we get you laid."

~~~~

I wanted to sit and bask in the warmth of Carla's presence, but she insisted I revisit the dating sites I had signed up with in the spring at the goading of one of our friends. There had been some matches I halfheartedly traded messages with, but none of the women compared to Carla. Soon I lost interest.

That night, Carla's presence hovered over my shoulder, guiding and encouraging me to search for matches again. Some profiles from before popped up, along with interesting new ones. She made me contact each of the most promising ones—seven in total.

It was past midnight when we finished. Carla also guided me to submit applications to volunteer at the humane society and food bank, sign up for speed dating and, though it was autumn, join an Ultimate Frisbee team.

Stumbling to bed, I wondered if Carla could join me somehow. Even though she had no body, I figured we could at least talk dirty to each other like we had whenever one of us traveled. But she faded away, imparting that she had to gather energy and would return when she could.

~~~~

That morning I found enthusiastic replies from all seven women. One stood out: Patricia had a beautiful face and fit body, and she seemed intelligent. Her profile seemed realistic, though a little boastful of her accomplishments.

Patricia insisted on meeting that night at a wine bar under a swanky hotel downtown. Carla and I had been there once—the arched brick ceilings and moody lighting gave it atmosphere and it an unparalleled selection, but it was expensive. The patrons seemed to be more interested in being seen than enjoying the wine.

After an hour spent nursing a delicious Argentine Malbec, I was ready to leave. Patricia swept through the door: she looked identical to her online photos—and just as smoothly photoshopped. She wore an immaculate emerald wrap-around dress topped by an open denim jacket, an ensemble that looked both thrown together while also being the height of casual fashion.

She surveyed the room, nodding and smiling here and there to people she seemed to know. Three patrons raised their glasses, others raised their phones to snap a photo then bent to thumb messages, no doubt posting on their various feeds.

Patricia spied me and strode to my little table.

"Ian," she said, greeting me with double air-kisses when I stood. "So nice to meet you. You look marvelous."

Earlier that evening, Carla's vague presence returned to guide me into dressing in new jeans, a dress shirt and blazer, and that morning she insisted I skip shaving to gain some stubble. She always loved how I looked with stubble, and especially loved the feel of me gliding it over the back of her neck, then her breasts and along her inner thighs before eating her to an orgasm or two.

Patricia sat opposite and ordered without glancing at the menu, the waiter fawning over her when he served us. She allowed him to snap a selfie with her when he asked.

Once past the usual pleasantries, Patricia described her day at the public relations firm she had founded, and her increase in online followers. Moments later she described running the Boston Marathon that spring, finishing in under three hours.

I congratulated her, asked her how many times she had run it, and related how I didn't run, but cycled a lot and went whitewater kayaking with friends.

If Patricia heard, she didn't show it. She went on and on about herself, her business, and her accomplishments. Some were very impressive, and I told her so, which she acknowledged with curt nods.

Carla's presence appeared—a blurry shimmer in the dim light of the bar. No one else seemed to see it.

"You're doing great," Carla said. "Keep showing interest in her, but hint about your own accomplishments, too."

I mentioned my engineering work and one of my firm's big successes. Patricia only nodded then began describing her townhouse and the exclusive area it was in. She then talked about her Audi convertible, the only one of its kind in town. She didn't even pause while she checked her makeup and hair in the mirror of a compact she pulled from her purse.

"I think she's open to you making a move," Carla said. "Offer to take her home."

"On a first date?" I blurted, far too loudly.

Patricia paused her diatribe of self-praise to tilt her head quizzically.

"Sorry," I said, face burning. "First date jitters. It's been years since I've done anything like this."

"Well," she said, "I meet a few guys every week. Only ones who seem worthy, of course. And in case you're wondering, I never go to bed on a first date."

Carla's form wafted by, brushing Patricia as it passed. Patricia stiffened, looking puzzled, then relaxed.

"Hmm," she said, "then again, you look promising. Did you say you're an engineer with Calamari and Benson? Very prestigious firm. Tell you what—let's go to your place. I need to see it if we're to go any further. But just for a nightcap. That's all."

Patricia begrudgingly approved of my two-story house, though listed improvements in landscaping, roofing and furniture she would need.

"A home is something to be proud of," she said, touring every room. As for the neighborhood, it was acceptable "in a retro, ironic way. I can make it work."

I thought a home and neighborhood were to be lived in, but what did I know?

After appraising the master bedroom, Patricia excused herself to use the on-suite bathroom and from the corner of my eye I thought I saw Carla's phantom follow her. I sat on the bed, trying to take stock. Was Patricia really that vain or was she only trying to impress, first date jitters and all?

Patricia emerged naked, her breathtaking body outlined by the light blazing from the bathroom behind her. Her breasts were perfect as was the spread of her hips, her narrow waist, and bare pussy.

I gasped and stood when she walked towards me.

"I really don't do this on first dates," she said, shucking off my blazer then unbuttoning my shirt. "You have a certain charm, though. Let's see how you perform."

That sounded like I was a pet or circus animal, but Patricia was the most beautiful, shapely woman I had ever been with. I was moderately fit and okay looking, but nowhere in her league. Times must be tougher than I knew for women over thirty, I thought, if she was being so bold with someone as ordinary as me.

I stripped and flung away the bedspread. Patricia smiled and laid back, arms behind her head, spreading her legs expectantly.

Her pussy was an "indie" or "clam" as some guys call it—a chubby moist slit with no inner lips—and defoliated to smooth perfection. I stared, amazed.

Patricia guided my face between her legs, obviously proud of her gorgeous pussy and of my reaction.

"Lick," she said. "Worship my cunt the way it deserves."

I did. Except for a few fumbling one-night stands in my first year of college, my sexual experience was all with Carla. In our years together, we had honed our lovemaking to a fine art. I knew her needs and delights better than I knew myself, so tried the same techniques with Patricia, hoping they would also work with her.

They seemed to. I teased, licked and stroked all around her pussy and lower tummy, sometimes brushing her skin, other times pressing firmly and raking my nails along her inner thighs. Soon Patricia's hips were rising off the bed as she threaded her fingers in my hair, guiding me. She moaned when I introduced one then two fingers into her grasping opening while teasing around her clit, avoiding direct contact, building her excitement.

My jaw and tongue were aching by the time Patricia's breathing grew heavy. Pressing two fingers up at her g-spot, I took her engorged clit between my lips and sucked gently, drawing moans from her. Minutes later, she gasped and mashed my face into her, gripping my head with her thighs as her velvety passage contracted and released around my thrusting fingers.

When she recovered and opened her eyes, she looked down and nodded. "You did good," she said.

I scooted up beside her, my cock iron hard and ready. As happy and relieved as I was to have made her come, it felt wrong to be in the bed I had shared with Carla with another woman. Yet I was too horny for those thoughts to stop me. After three years of absence, I needed to fuck.

Guiding Patricia's hand to my rampant cock, she stroked me a few times and forced a smile.

"You're a good size," she said, then released me. "I don't do blowjobs, if that's what you're hoping for—too degrading. And I told you I don't fuck on first dates. You can look at my body while you get yourself off if you want. I'll let you come on my tits."

I expected more, hoped for more, but it was our first time. If that was what she wanted, I'd live with it. Straddling her waist, I began stroking myself as she watched, arms behind her head.

Carla's presence materialized at the head of the bed then sank into Patricia, making her shiver. I watched Patricia's eyes widen, then turn lidded and sultry.

"Put your cock in me," she breathed, reaching up and drawing me close, "fuck me."

"I thought—"

"Now!"

She guided me to lie on her and with her hand, positioned me at her slick entrance. Hooking her legs around mine, Patricia grasped my ass with both hands and levered me into her, her slit spreading open to swallow my cock. We both groaned at the sensation. I retreated, then thrust once, twice, then was fully within her.

Patricia moaned and clung with her arms and legs. She felt so different from Carla: not as wet, not as warm, and instead of staring back with eyes shining with love and passion, Patricia's head was to one side, her eyes screwed shut.

Animal lust took control. I sawed in and out of Patricia's sculpted body while she moaned and clung. The newness of her had appeal, but without love it felt hollow. It was just fucking.

My animal hind brain didn't care. Only fucking a beautiful woman mattered. I gave into that primal urge, rutting savagely into Patricia to the music of her groans and gasps.

Incredibly, only a few minutes of our rough mating passed before Patricia cried out and came, her mouth wide with eyes lidded and I lost it. Driving into her hard, I tipped over the edge and, groaning with pleasure, unloaded into her with blast after blast while I soared into mindless bliss.

Reality returned in time to see Carla's presence flow out of Patrica like smoke. Carla's spirit blanketed me with warmth and love and then faded. I slipped from Patricia and rolled off onto the bed beside her.

"Dammit. I never fuck on a first date," Patricia said moments later, staring at the ceiling.

"You said you wanted to," I said, reaching for her hand.

She flinched and pulled away. "I did. A lot. But it was... weird. What's worse, you're just not worthy of me."

Patricia got up and strode to the bathroom. Moments later she emerged in her clothes. After spearing me with a perturbed scowl, she went downstairs and left.

~~~~

"Carla, show yourself!"

I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to understand what had happened.