This week was ghosts.
     A few wayward strands of her hair brushed against my cheek as she sat down next to me. She always felt that the metro was cold, even in the summer, and I was a convenient source of heat. I felt her head on my shoulder as she settled into the seat and closed the small gap between us. Familiar fingers entwined themselves with mine.
     The seat next to me was empty, but I felt her touch.
     Last week, it was her voice. When I indulged in light eavesdropping at the art show, she admonished me. She laughed at the funny stories I told the regulars at the bar. She ordered her favorite dishes at the restaurants that we loved. On the train, she whispered silly comments in my ear about the other commuters.
     The week before, it was her reflection. I’d see her in the bathroom mirror, arms wrapped around me as I splashed water on my face. Window shopping, I’d see her laugh as she pointed at objects in boutique windows. I’d see her reflected in the smoke grey plastic of the train windows, seated next to me as I went home.
     But this week–this week was ghosts.
     I’d grown used to it. This wasn’t the only time. Monday, she massaged the back of my neck after I got home from work. Tuesday, I woke up with her arm draped over me, her body rising and falling with soft breaths that I felt on my neck. During those times, I kept my eyes closed. I knew it wasn’t happening, but it was a small comfort.