ALEXEI

     There's a moment where neither of us are speaking. Sinclair's chest is moving with these quick breaths. And I'm caught in a wave of commiseration, because I can understand wanting to not be here. I can understand feeling stuck.

     But then I'm surprised that a ghost is breathing. It makes me think that maybe I'm actually the one who's dead. My head is throbbing too much for that to be true.

     As it stands, he's clearly not going to go away.

     And if I can't force him away, there's only one viable option. Help him move on to wherever ghosts go. Preferably, as quickly as possible.

     I suck a breath in loudly, breathe it out through my nose. It's meant to be a signal of resignation, but Sinclair's eyes fall to my mouth and I'm thinking that's not what he's getting out of it.

     "Okay," I say simply. "I will help you."

     Sinclair's brows go up, down, up again. They stay there as he swallows and then says, "So...okay. Great. We're in this together."

     "Not together," I respond, quick and cutting. I want to reach out and turn his face away so he can stop looking at me so intensely. His eyes too blue, and too bright for something that is not even alive. "Separately...but adjacent."

     Sinclair tucks his chin as he fights a smile. He doesn't win and the thing breaks out across his face. "My dude, who hurt you?"

     I lean away from him. "Get out of my seat. I need to work."

     "Yeah, no, yeah. All yours. Kept it warm for ya'. Actually." He drops a hand on the seat as he stands. "Cold. Cool. Turns out body heat hasn't kicked back in yet." He laughs at what is obviously not funny.

     "Has anyone ever told you, you talk too much?" I ask dryly as I skirt around him and take my seat, pulling my bag into my lap.

     "Only everyone, actually," Sinclair responds, laughing. "One of my better traits."

     "Concerned about your bad traits in that case."

     "Appreciate your concern," he says cheekily, draping himself across my armchair. It is a drape, of sorts, for sure. His back against the arm and legs over the other side. He stares up at the ceiling like this is a paid session. "Maybe we crossed paths at some point and that's why you can see me? Hm. Where'd you go to school?"

     "MIT," I answer despite myself. I watch my computer boot up slowly. I film through my rolodex, not looking for anything specifically, but not wanting to focus on Sinclair who's doing some sort of head-shoulders-knees-and-toes rendition as he touches himself. "Can you stop that?"

     "Sorry. I just. Have a touchable body again."

     "That's a strange thing to say."

     "It's an afterlife thing. You wouldn't get it." Sinclair whistles and then goes, "So not college."

     "Where did you go?"

     He shakes his head. "I didn't. My dad got sick. I deferred, instead."

     "Sorry to hear that."

     "About my dad? That's alright. Colon resection and a shit bag later, my man's was practically good as new. Except for the shit bag. That thing stunk. Literally. Beats cancer, though. God, I'm punny today."

     I groan, because all of that was just such unnecessary extra information. "No, about the deferment."

     Sinclair grins. I look away. I need to call in for a debrief with Svenson on any overnight alerts. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

     "Well aware." I start a call, setting it to speaker as I wait. Adele answers. "Put me through to Svenson."

     "Certainly, Mr. Eriksson."

     Sinclair has moved from the arm chair to cross the room, where there are built-in shelves and a host of cyber security, network defense, and leadership texts that I'd accumulated in my tenure.

     "What happened to hi, hello, good morning?" he asks pointedly as he pulls a book out, flips through it, then shoves it back.

     "Shut it," I snap right before Paul picks up the line.

     Paul has a deep voice, all tenor, and it sounds even more gravelly since he was clearly sleeping. "Would it kill you to call in normal working hours?"

     "It's eight a.m., Paul," I respond, dryly.

     "Another hour would not have been a detriment to anyone."

     "It would've been a detriment to me."

     "And when you're a detriment to Alexei Eriksson, you're a detriment to society," Sinclair says like he's a late night tv show host, holding his fist up to his mouth as a microphone. My snake plant is in his other hand.

     "Put that down before you break it, too," I snap.

     Sinclair drops his fist, and points at the phone, mouth gaping in a perfect O.

     "Who the hell are you talking to?" Paul asks.

     I clear my throat, rubbing at the side of my head. "Sorry," I say quickly. "You can start the debrief."

     My mental wellness is always a topic of concern among my coworkers. The last thing I need is to be caught talking to thin air.

     It's not even a full moment later that fucking Sinclair drops my plant.

SINCLAIR

     Alexei is giving me the silent treatment. Which is fine. I don't need him, I can entertain myself. But I think he's mad about the plant. It was an honest mistake! Total accident! And anyway, he sent his assistant to get a new pot, which is a total abuse of power.

     Alls I'm saying is the thing looked like it was wanting for an out. Couldn't stand another minute being associated with the grouch in this sterile ass office. Seriously. He needs to hire a new decorator. I don't even understand how the plant was surviving in here it's so cold and low-lit.

     If I thought the set-up at home was ridiculous—he's got three, high-res monitors on his desk. It's a big desk, not at all cluttered with anything. Fucking rolodex like it's 1953. A bookshelf with even more pretentious books if you'd believe it.

     This office is where fun comes to die.

     "Can you go somewhere?" Alexei calls out to him, sounding exasperated.

     "Where?"

     "Th-that's honestly for you to figure out," he says now flustered and exasperated. When I look over at him, he's pinching his nose. "I need to focus and all your pacing is giving me a headache."

     "Something tells me you're just one of those people who always has a headache."

     "Sinclair."

     I throw up my hands. "For how long?"

     "For how long what?"

     "How long should I go somewhere?" Before he can give the snarky response I'm reading in his expression I quickly add, "And don't say forever."

     "Till the end of my workday?"

     "Well when's the end of your workday?"

     "Christ, Sinclair, just come back at 6PM."

     I don't actually leave. Because the thing is, I really have nowhere to go.

     It's not technically stalking because I don't follow Alexei on his bathroom breaks, but I do follow him into the kitchen where he takes two coffees, one at noon, and another at 3PM. I watch the way he minimally interacts with his co-workers, but the way they seem not to be bothered by it. I wonder how long he's worked here.

     I float around for a bit when he takes a call, not really caring to hear about cybersecurity. There's a girl, Nadine, who's gossiping with Maddy in her office. It's boring until they start talking about Alexei.

     Nadine's sitting on the end of Maddy's desk, chomping on a cheese stick. Between bites she says, "I asked him for the data on that breach at the Firmington bank and instead he just did the whole stupid forensics report."

     Maddy rolls her eyes but she's smiling. "I know, he always does that."

     Nadine's expression is less forgiving. It clearly annoys her that Alexei doesn't trust her. "Like if I needed you to do my work, I would've just asana'd you."

     "Honestly," Maddy says in a hushed whisper. "I don't think he has anything else going on other than work, you know? Like he just eat, sleeps, and breathes it."

     "Fucking lame," Nadine says with a smirk. "It's a shame honestly. He's objectively hot."

     Maddy's expression is squished. She obviously doesn't see it. "In like a serial killer kind of way, maybe."

     "Come on," Nadine says nudging Maddy with her foot. "You're telling me you wouldn't if you had the chance? He looks like every bad boy in every bad 90s movie."

     "Exactly. Not my type."

     Nadine rolls her eyes. "I'd let him pin me down and fuck me. Hell, I'd let him hold a knife to my throat if he were into it."

     "Oh my god, Nadine! Please. I have to look this guy in the eyes."

     Nadine licks her lips. "I love me some eye contact, too."

     I leave because now I'm thinking about Alexei in some compromising ass positions. And it's amazing, really, what you can feel when you're dead. (Jealousy. Sexual frustration. Mild interest.)

     It's not six, but nearing it, and I'm about to ditch the jig, when Alexei heaves a breath and turns his seat around, facing away from his screens and towards the windows. I stalk around his desk, curiously, surprised to find he's staring out the window blankly, his brow stitched.

     He stares for so long, so blankly, I start counting my breaths, trying to get an idea of how much time passes.

     I know that what I do, what I am, it's an invasion, it's a blight. But it's never really felt like it till this moment, watching Alexei wrap his fingers around his neck and squeeze so hard, the vein running down his temple pulses.

ALEXEI

     Sinclair is sitting across from me at Rudy's, a gastropub just a short walk from the office. Sinclair had insisted we go, and insisted we walk. Insisted and then pleaded and then bargained.

     "You banished me all day, you owe me," he'd snapped after he'd returned to my office promptly at six p.m.

     Why a ghost wanted to go sit in a pub where he couldn't have a drink or eat anything or do anything, made little sense to me.

     Once we're seated and I'm perusing a menu I have no appetite for, he says, "Put your AirPods in so people don't think you're totally crazy."

     As opposed to? I think.

     "Mildly crazy?" Sinclair answers.

     I raise my eyes to his, stilted by my surprise. Sinclair looks the same. "I," he says slowly. "I think I just. Did I just read your mind?"

     I close my eyes slowly, pressing my lips together as my hand rises to my eyebrow, pressing at the strain there. "Of course," I mutter quietly. "Of course you can read my mind."

     "I didn't. I couldn't before. I mean, literally hours ago I couldn't. This is so strange."

     "Somewhere, there is a god having entirely too much fun fucking around with my life."

     Sinclair huffs. "Alright, you really do look nuts talking to yourself. So, you know, AirPods."

     I roll my eyes. "I don't have AirPods."

     He makes a face. "What kinda tech bro doesn't have AirPods?"

     "I'm not a tech bro."

     Sinclair laughs, disbelievingly. "Okay, well do you have headphones of some sort?"

     I unearth some corded headphones from the pocket of my jacket. As I pop them into my ears, connect them to my phone, Sinclair goes, "Of course you have corded headphones still."

     "Better sound quality," I respond.

     "You sound so pretentious right now, I wish you could hear yourself."

     I heave a breath. "Why am I even here? Could we not have had this conversation at my place?"

     It's the wrong thing to say and I recognize that immediately. But Sinclair speaks before I can recant the statement. "Oh, so you want me back at your place?"

     I frown, mumbling, "Don't be coy. You know what I meant." How the fuck is a ghost flirting with me?

     He's grinning as he throws his hands up. "Sure, sure." He pushes a menu towards me discreetly. "Anyway, I thought you'd want to get something to eat so figured this was a good option. I looked at the menu already, that Americana burger sounds good."

     "I'm really not hungry."

     Sinclair eyeballs me. "You look like you're very hungry."

     My head falls to the side, regarding him unamused. "And what do you mean by that?"

     "I meant gaunt. I'd think you were the ghost if I didn't know any better."

     Before I can snap back at him, a server walks up, setting down an iced water. "Hi, I'm Beth," she says with a soft grin. "I'll be your server. Can I start you with anything to drink?"

     "Get a beer," Sinclair says. "God, what I wouldn't do for a lager."

     I scrunch my nose, doing my best not to respond to him. "Water's fine."

     "Lame."

     "Okay, great. Do you need a minute with the menu?"

     "Get the Americana burger, please," Sinclair says next. "I'm begging you. And onion rings. Pretty, pretty please. I just want to stare at them."

     I stammer on a response, finding it hard to focus on her and filter out Sinclair's voice. "An Americana burger, please, medium well, no tomato. And onion rings?"

     "You got it," she says. "Holler if you need anything."

SINCLAIR

     Alexei barely eats. He picks at his burger, doesn't touch the onion rings, but downs two glasses of water. My mind if buzzing. Manorexia maybe? But it doesn't explain the choking from earlier. I've been nonstop thinking about the choking. Hot and scary.

     We skirt around topics. What did I do before I died? (Bartend) And do I have family still alive? (Yes, my parents and an older brother) Does Alexei have family? (No, none that he speaks to. He left it at that.)

     He's gone pensively quiet on our walk to his car. "Do you feel that this provided any clarity at all?" he asks suddenly turning to look at me. His hand rests on his door handle.

     "I mean, clarity on you, sure."

     He gives me a look. "Well, I don't really care to provide clarity regarding myself. I meant about why you're here."

     "Negative," I answer with a shrug. "I guess we'll know when we know."

     He heaves a breath, tired, it seems, and a little annoyed. His shoulders sag, but he doesn't say anything else, getting in his car instead. I watch him from outside as he takes his headphones out of his ears, and then starts the engine. I wait till he's buckled in before I join him in the passenger seat.

     "I think that's all for tonight," he says. "I'm tired of your presence."

     "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," I tease, trying to ignore the phantom hurt in my ribcage. I don't need Alexei to like me. He's just gotta work with me. I buckle myself in, too, just so he understands I'm not leaving.

     He doesn't argue the way I expect him to, and maybe want him to, just peels out of his parking spot. That's how I know he must be really tired.

     Maybe he's one of those people who gets delusionally honest when they're tired. It's worth a try.

     "So," I say drawing out the vowel. "Why were you choking yourself earlier?"