REALITY?: Ghosts

Chuck steak with potatoes, onions and a can of beer done up in a pressure cooker.  Fresh-killed butternut squash whipped with a pat of butter and a dollop of sour cream.  Red red wine.  Two men I adore.  The laughter–over what? I can’t remember–bubbles out like raucous thunder in a lightning streak above the kitchen table.  My throat is sore from shrieking laughs, my eyes are blurred with tears. Over–yes, now I remember–he met his next door neighbor, a nice single lady his age, and offered help tomorrow on her yardwork but he just forgot her name!  We agree that he’s a fool, an idiot, a man out of his element. We offer Jenny, Jane, Julia and every derivative we know and I suggest he merely call her "J."  For some reason that’s extraordinarily hilarious and even though we laugh and get sillier still, I laugh harder when I hear Chris whisper low from somewhere in her kitchen:  Jerk-ass.

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