Ghosts Are People, Too
Marit Ericson
Her name is Alana. Her smile has a Finnish accent. She sleeps in
inside-out band shirts. Her favorite feeling was right after sunset,
June 16th. There’s something studied in the way she chews bread,
like she’s a realist trying to seem actorly. She might say that’s an
uncharitable assessment. Curiously, Alana talks about herself in
the third person. It’s almost an irony thing. Almost. Outwardly hip,
secretly confused. Alana wants to be free, but she lives with a heavy
heart. Don’t open up to cheaters, assholes, and creeps, she thinks
every week, not wanting to feel how it’s true. Alana goes on a date,
predictably, with denial. Don’t say much of anything to yourself.
