Free Motel. Pool. by Kim Fielding

dreary motel room with its two ugly paintings on the wall and puke-green curtains across the window. “How does this place compare to your motel. The one where….”
    “Where I died? This is way nicer.” Jack maneuvered to lean back on the pillows next to Tag. His weight on top of the blankets pinned Tag down. “You don’t mind sharing a bed with a fellow?” Jack asked.
    “I’ve shared a lot of beds with a lot of fellows.”
    For once, it was Jack who looked surprised. “You sleep with men?”
    “When the opportunity arises.”
    “You’re homosexual?”
    “Card-carrying.”
    “And you just… tell people? Just like that.”
    “First off, you’re not people . You’re imaginary. And second, yeah. I’ve been out since I was fifteen.” That wasn’t quite true. He’d been out to his friends since then but hadn’t said anything to his parents for another year. Their reaction had been pretty much what he expected—his mom had cried and his dad had yelled, and then they’d both refused to talk about it again.
    Jack was looking offended, though. “I might not be alive, but I’m not imaginary . See?” He poked Tag’s shoulder really hard.
    “Ouch! That doesn’t prove anything. I’m imagining the poking too.”
    “Do you always imagine ghosts?”
    “No. You’re my first.”
    “That’s ’cause I’m real, dummy. Or well, nearly. Real enough.” The corners of his mouth curled down and he turned his gaze back to the TV.
    Tag tried to formulate some kind of argument, a definitive proof that Jack didn’t exist. But debating the subject with Jack seemed to acknowledge Jack’s existence, at least a little bit, didn’t it? Tag was still trying to work this out when he slipped into sleep.
     
     
    W HEN T AG opened his eyes, bright light was sneaking in around the edges of the ugly curtains, and Jack was propped on the pillows, staring at him.
    “That’s kind of creepy,” Tag complained before yawning widely.
    “I’m supposed to be creepy. I’m a ghost.”
    Scowling, Tag sat up and stretched. He’d had some strange dreams but now couldn’t remember them. That wasn’t unusual. Whatever went on in his subconscious had little interaction with his waking life. Until very recently, when his psyche decided to spring Jack on him.
    “Things are really different than they used to be,” Jack said. He waved toward the television where a morning show played, the sound turned low.
    “The world’s moved on.”
    “I guess it does that.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve missed a lot.”
    “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Stuff was simpler when you were alive.”
    “Is that what you think?”
    “I… yeah. Sure. You didn’t have information coming at you twenty-four seven, just filling up your brain until you want to burst. And people were safer, right? Less likely to get blown away by a crackhead or a terrorist or just some dude having a really bad day.”
    “ Some people were safer,” Jack replied, his expression reminding Tag that Jack hadn’t been safe at all—he’d died far too young. Except he hadn’t died at all because he wasn’t real, dammit.
    Tag climbed out of bed and stretched again. He should have been disappointed that a decent night’s sleep hadn’t cured his insanity, but he wasn’t. Hell, he was beginning to find his hallucination intriguing. Still, under other circumstances he probably would have made a beeline to the nearest shrink. Now, though… now he didn’t have to bother.
    “I’m gonna shower,” he announced.
    “You showered last night.”
    “I like being clean.”
    He spent only a few minutes under the water this time, using up the last of the soap. Afterward, his hair wouldn’t behave, not even when he attacked it viciously with his comb. Tag paused, remembering back to childhood and his mother’s ferocity with the tangles in his too-long hair or with the scissors and razor when she decided to “clean him up.” He took a deep, shaky breath