Ghosts

by Dolly Alderton

I imagined him as a single forty-something, silvery strands streaked through his red hair, gallant crinkles around his eyes, a flat twice the size filled with twice as much detritus of an insecure man with too much money. He wouldn’t seem desperate or sad. Men like Jethro got to journey through life and be perceived as lion-hearted, intrepid explorers. Then I realized—he would be able to decide when he wanted to fall in love and have a family and it would happen. There would always be a woman who wanted to love him. He didn’t have to take this chance at all—he could wait for another chance. Then another one. The female population was just an endless source of chances and he could wait as long as he wanted. There was so little risk involved when it came to who and how he loved. Nothing meant anything to him. “You won’t marry a woman your age,” I said, understanding it as I said it aloud. “You’ll marry a woman ten years younger than you. That’s how this will work. You’re right, age doesn’t matter. To you.” He stared at me, his mouth tight and defiant, and said nothing.