Lyndsey and I were together for six years before she died. I
met her at seventeen and she wanted to save herself for marriage. She was the
first girl who paid attention to me, so I was willing to wait. Heck, I’d
already waited for 17 years, what was a few more? Then, after a booze-up with Ashley, I decided
(he decided for me. I’m very susceptible to peer pressure) that I should break
up with her. Just before I was going to do it, she got sick. Then she died. And
because I was “always there for her” and “giving her the strength she needed”
her mother gave me her ashes. And that’s why we’re still together, two years
after she died.
It’s because her ashes are still with me, and because that’s
the kind of guy I am, that Lyndsey is able to communicate with me. And by
communicate I mean she’s in my apartment, she puts an ass dent in my couch, and
she tries to make out with me.
Anyone know how I can break up with my dead girlfriend?
Calling Lyndsey’s easy. I just pick up the phone. I don’t
have to do anything else. The symbolism of the event is what’s important. And
when I hang up the phone, she’s there sitting on my couch leafing through my
“men’s” magazines.
“Those are Ashley’s!”
She smiles at me. She has a beautiful smile. She had a
beautiful smile too. To be honest, spiritual Linds is a lot hotter than
corporeal Linds was. I mean, her features are all the same, but she’s hotter,
like she’s become her ideal Linds…or my ideal Linds.
“I’m sure they are sweetie.” She knows I’m lying, but she
always gives me the benefit of the doubt.
She always gave me the benefit of the doubt? One of the difficult things
of dealing with the dead is how do you speak of them, past or present
tense.
I go to the kitchen and grab a beer and a bag of chips. I
like to eat chips when Linds is here, it gives my mouth something to do.
“You’re drinking beer and wine?” She doesn’t tell me not to,
but the lines on her face tell me that she disapproves. She was always a teetotaller,
which was awesome when we’d go out to a bar because we always had a designated
driver. Actually, she never went to the bars with us, but I could always call
her for a ride.
“No, I am drinking beer. I was drinking wine.”
“Why were you drinking wine?”
“Ashley wants me to gain an appreciation of wine. He thinks
it’ll help me get…” I trail off, before I tell my dead girlfriend that he wants
me to get lucky.
“It’ll help you what?” she asks, too trusting to figure it
out.
“Um, it’ll help me get a better appreciation of life. You
know Ash, he thinks being British means you have to be full of yourself and
crap at the same time.”
Well there was a missed opportunity. If I had told her the
truth, then she probably would’ve dumped me. But, because I didn’t tell her the
truth, does that mean that I want to stay with her? Man, I do not have time for
this sort of existential philosophizing. I have a bag of chips I need to eat.
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