You'd Look Better as a Ghost

by Joanna Wallace

“Christiana, spelled with a C.” I glance towards the Welshman just in time to see the smirk. No doubt thinking about another word spelled with a C.

her individual journey of grief takes an unexpected early detour into racism.

Lifeless eyes, gasping for breath . . . did the fish know they were swimming through years of shit? Could they see anything through the filthy glass? Would they want to?

“What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Claire.” I tap my own name badge, wondering what it is about the concept of name badges Jemma finds so difficult to understand.

I’m beginning to realize I’ve never given grief the respect it deserves. Drawing no distinction between strong, weak, rich or poor, it plows through everyone’s lives the same, leaving identical mounds of emotional debris behind.

How can I feel pity for a goldfish flipping desperately across my living room rug, yet nothing but irritation for the man I’m drowning?

I know assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups.

There’s no doubt about it. I definitely prefer these people when they’re crying.

“The funny thing is . . .” I stop listening. When ordinary people feel the need to announce how funny a thing is, the only thing you can be sure of is that the thing will not be funny at all.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer.” Returning the smile, I get in the car and wonder how many serial killers in the history of serial killing have used that line. I might try it.

I’ve always been fascinated by this particular aspect of human nature—the insatiable need to be envied and admired. Every day, millions of ordinary people become locked in a relentless battle to accumulate “likes” on social media, never stopping long enough to question whether they still like the person they’re pretending to be. We have evolved to the point where the truth is no longer an inconvenience, it’s irrelevant.

I want to go to a pub because I don’t like coffee.” Ah, so that’s why he wants to go to a pub. Makes perfect sense now. I imagine most pubs are filled to the brim with coffee haters. All sitting on bar stools, getting drunk and discussing the evils of caffeine.