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Phoebe could see her reflection like a ghost super-imposed over all thatlimitless darkness. She felt like a ghost, too, like something not quitereal, a figment of someone's imagination. But who's? She was a ghostfloating across the countryside to haunt a person who'd run as far awayfrom her as possible.What brought her back to earth was the growling in her belly. When wasthe last time she ate last? Pittsburgh? She didn't like to eat when therewasn't a scale around. So she'd been restricting her diet even more thanusual, just to be on the safe side.She slipped the candy bar out of the pocket of her denim jack and brokeoff another two-inch piece. She nibbled at it slowly and watched theghost of her nibble at it on the window.Ghosts, she reflected, didn't eat.Then her cell phone beeped. She looked at the lighted display and saw itwas another text from him.Later for him.Instead she took out her journal and wrote:You know how it goes. It's a winter night and a father and son are in anasty. —was better off without a useless brother like me. I selected “no” again.There was no third prompt.Since I didn’t have anywhere in particular to go, I walked aimlessly around my small coastal Florida town of Navarre taking pictures of whatever happened to catch my attention. I’d like to say they were the best pictures I’d ever taken. To say that before my death a miracle occurred and I captured my last will and testament in photographic form.If miracles like that really occurred, maybe I wouldn’t have felt like running away.No, the pictures I took were as average as any other I’d taken. I took pictures of the noisy seagulls. Of the rolling ocean. Of the average looking houses on my cul-de-sac. Of the vast sky and its lazy clouds, but, most importantly, never of myself.By the time the sun started its descent beyond the sea, my day spent taking meaningless pictures of meaningless things came to a close and I reviewed the pictures on the sidewalk outside my house. Scrolling through them,.
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