Delete, delete, delete.

*Some language*

God, he hated funerals, he thought as he drove the parched road, dust billowing up behind his late model Mercedes. The windows were rolled down to let the hot air in and move around to at least simulate a cooling effect. The air conditioning had been broken since he bought the clunker 6 months ago. He let the sand blow in with the air and stick to his damp face. He ran his fingers through his too-ample hair pulling it back off his forehead.

“You can’t say too-ample hair,” my character commented. “It sounds dumb. gloriously thick- particularly for his age- hair pulling it back off his virile forehead sounds better.” He continued.

“Fine,” I answer hitting the delete key. “But I’m not saying virile forehead.”

“And why is he going to a funeral, who have you killed this time?

While I’m at it, I shouldn’t drive a Mercedes. Seems like a battered pick up truck would better suit my roguish handsomeness.”

“Sheesh, leave me alone.” I said but made the changes and continued writing.

Arriving at the small episcopal church, its stone facade putting on a brave face as mourners gathered, their heads down, their postures somber, he scanned the parking lot for familiar cars. Mom hadn’t arrived yet so that was a blessing. Maybe…

“No, no,” my character sighed. I ignored him.

…he’d be spared her judgement for a little longer.

“Boo-hoo. A grown man still stressing over what mommy thinks. No, that has got to change.”

Delete, delete, delete. I hated when my character was better equipped to write the story.

Arriving at the small episcopal church, its stone facade putting on a brave face, he got out of the truck, buttoning his collar and snugging up his tie as he did so. The former high school football heartthrob walked…

“Seriously? Soooo cliche.” My character complained.

Delete, delete... snugging up his tie as he did so. He’d been the bad boy in his high school days here.

“Better,” my character commented almost encouragingly. Almost, but not.

His yearbook quote, had he graduated and been included in it, was from Chappell Roan:

Everything I do is a ‘f--k you’ to the box I was so pressured to be put in and a reference to people who came before me."

“Now you’re feeling me,” my character said, nodding with approval. I’m not going to lie, I felt a little tug at the corner of my mouth at the compliment.

The whispers began as soon as he stepped foot in the church.

“OMG, Alfie is here!” Or ….

“You absolutely cannot name me Alfie, not even Alfred. Duke or Zeus, maybe. Caesar.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, getting tired of his constant interruptions.

…Or, “I can’t believe he showed up here.” A few woman snapped their heads around to look a second time as he stood up a little straighter, feigning a cock-sure attitude.

“I’m not feigning, I am cock- sure.”

I pretended not to hear.

He was handsome in a rakish way. Dark, thick wavy hair curled behind his ears, cerulean eyes pierced through deep sockets from beneath eyebrows that looked well groomed but were just naturally perfect, and a weathered hide stretched nicely over a square jaw line where a days worth of stubble grew.

“Oh, that’s good. Keep going.”

“Shush or I’ll make you a pale, freckle faced guy with a wiry frame and Poindexter glasses who drives a minivan.”

“Okay, okay. My lips are sealed,” he said rolling his gorgeous cerulean eyes as he sulked off into the corner.

Serena came up the aisle and walked beside him. Without saying a word, she took his hand and he let her lead him into a pew where they sat together. Serena was a large woman whose belly jiggled when she moved. She wore cat eye glasses, their yellow frames sat slightly askew on her face, and chunky, noisy bangles encircled her thick wrists. Her skin was pale, translucent almost. She had been his high school sweetheart.

“No. No. Just… NO!” My character said. He’d snuck up behind me after he’d had a good pout.

“I would not date that,” he said.

“Listen up Alfie and stop being such a shallow little shit. I will do the writing from here on out.”

“Well, I won’t cooperate. I refuse.” Alfie said.

“Really? What are you going to do about it?”

“Die. The funeral is mine. I’m there as a ghost.”

“Nope,” I said and stared at the keyboard wondering where to take the story next.

“And my name isn’t Alfie, it’s Mark.” He said with finality.

“Fine, you can be Mark.”

The curser blinked. Blink, blink, blink. Mark was tapping his foot impatiently on the hardwood floor and thrumming his fingers on the table. Sighing loudly. Dramatically.

In high school, Serena was a sprite. She was popular, not because she was bright and athletic, but because she was authentically kind. To everyone: the nerds, the socialites, the jocks and the plain Jane’s, the teachers, the janitor and the school bus drivers. Didn’t matter who, she didn’t know how to be anything but sweet and open hearted. It practically made her the freak she was that good down to her marrow. She was all of 5 feet, 4 inches and weighed about 92 pounds. Long blonde hair cascaded down her back and dark, nearly black, almond shaped eyes were striking and large. She was three years older than Mark and asked him to her senior prom.

“Come on, don’t make me the younger one.” Character Mark said.

“Doesn’t matter Mark, you’re dead remember? The ghost at his own funeral?”

“I changed my mind. I like Serena now. High school Serena anyway.”

“Way to step up Mark.” I said sarcastically. “And what exactly do you think she sees in you?”

“My stunning physique, debonair personality and charming wit.” He answered.

“No, sorry. You wanted to be the bad boy. Bad boys are not debonair, you’re not in prep school.”

He huffed in response.

Mark had been a promising student, he was never going to be valedictorian but he got decent grades, and was a talented artist. He was an observer; quiet, with few if any real friends.

“I’m pathetic,” Mark said, “A complete loser.”

“Get over yourself,” I said and continued.

It was easy to see him growing into a handsome young man though he still was a bit gangly. But he didn’t see it then and he wasn’t sure what to make of the invitation from Serena so he declined. Apologized awkwardly. Serena had laughed it off good-naturedly. He didn’t expect she would be upset, she had the pick of the school for dates, but her willingness to ask him stuck with him. Confused him, but stuck with him.

“This isn’t working for me,” Mark said. “I would totally go on that date, she sounds hot. Why did you make me decline?”

“Shallow, Mark, shallow. Zip it.”

As the prom approached and the flurry of excitement…

“Bor -ring,” Mark yawned.

“I didn’t ask you,” I retorted though I knew he was right. Damn.

I took a break. I went into the kitchen for a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. I splashed a little extra into the glass, it had been a frustrating writing day with starts and stops and still a measly 1200 words was all I’d written. Mediocre words at that. And Mark? Argh.

I heard a giggling from the study. I walked in, wine in hand, to find Mark sitting in my chair, feet propped up on the desk reclining with his hands behind his head.

“What,” I demanded. “ What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he grinned. “Finished the short story though.”

“Really,” I said worriedly. “What do you mean?”

“I finished it. Control. Alt. Delete.” He smirked.