Ghost Tales

Once upon a time, I met up with a tall, dark, and handsome (like, always) dude who, for the sake of privacy, I'll name Joe (which is also easier to type as we go along). Joe and I had been talking for about two weeks before meeting up. Yes, we met on Tinder. I thought something was wrong with me when I found myself downloading and deleting the app more often than I replace my Glade Plug-Ins, but I've come to find out that EVERYONE in NYC does the same thing. Whatever. Joe was a lot more breathtaking in person (they always are, girls). He was easy on the eyes and made you feel at home when he said your name.

Sidebar: There is always something so exhilarating when a guy I’m into says my name. I take note of that, it seems silly, but if and when he doesn’t ever say my name when we talk on the phone or in person the situation seems less personal. I like intimacy, especially when dealing with a conversation.

Joe and I took happy hours into Friday Night Lights hours, and we found ourselves sitting in a musty and loud bar in Williamsburg (I enjoy the dive scene because everything goes—crazies and bad service, but the prices are always better too). We sat at the bar, facing each other. His knees were touching mine and on occasion (when appropriate), I’d grazed my hand upon his thigh to let him know, “Duh, I dig you.” If the conversation didn’t keep me alert, I would have never accepted his invite to go back to his place to smoke hookah. A guy who’ll ask questions about your childhood, what brought you here, and what your goals are will trigger that good-good. I don’t care much for cars, but he had one and always made sure to open my door when I hopped in. (We were not drunk.)

His apartment was something out of a Z-Gallerie catalogue, with teal hues splashed all throughout his brownstone aesthetic. Joe seemed like a Danny Tanner-type—“a clean home is a happy home” type man (and I’m a big fan of Full House so there’s that).

“Yeah, let’s listen to the 90s R&B playlist.”

"You sure?” he asked.

“Yessss,” as I looked over his shoulders and pressed the play button on his phone. Not sure if it was the few vodka tonics I already had but I was trying to figure out why smoking hookah was putting me on the brink of passing out. I know for a fact I wasn’t drunk, but at this point I mentioned that I needed to kick back and just watch him do his thing. He laughed and playfully made fun of me. As we sat on his sofa with intermittent intense eye contact locking, I tried to picture myself hanging out with him on the regular. He made hanging out with him seem like the good ole days; there was something so genuine and warm about being in his presence.

Fast forward to later-laterz.

As I made my way down the roaring old wooden staircase, to wait for my Uber, I noticed a stack of mail sitting on top of a vintage harp-shaped table at the end of the building’s hallway. I whispered the name noted on the top envelope, “_____ ______ (DUDE I GHOSTED LAST SUMMER).” I don’t think I ever whispered a gasp in my entire life, until that very moment. As I tried to register the name in my memory bank and convince myself it could be someone else with that name, the heavy footsteps to my right were about to prove otherwise. He walked right past me, glared at me, and didn’t even take his mail. Brooklyn is not that small, y’all. Once again: It ain’t that small. Hanging out with Joe in the future didn’t seem so warm anymore.

Nobody lived happily ever after (shoulder shrug).

P.S. Ghosting on someone is not nice. Plain and simple. The universe will haunt you later. I’m living proof of that.