Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story by Sarah M. Glover

was startled by a sound from a few yards in front of him. A homeless man stood picking through the contents of his grocery cart. His hair and mustache were matted and plastered onto his head in patches of brown and gold. Fingerless gloves covered his hands, and it appeared as though he wore two or three threadbare coats. His sneakers were tied onto his feet with twine.
    Moved by the sight, Andrew reached into his pocket and tucked a few dollars in the paper cup by his cart. The man grunted something in response and continued rummaging through old newspapers and layers of orange tarp.
    Just as Andrew was about to turn away, a hand reached out to grab his arm but missed. The eyes that had been shielded by the brim of his cap peered at Andrew from behind grimy spectacles. They were white, entirely white, and made the hair on the back of Andrew’s neck stand straight on end. The blind man leaned forward and whispered, “You’re making it way harder than it has to be, kid. Dames ain’t that hard to understand. Every one of them wants to be pursued, to be wooed. Don’t matter what they say, they want you to work for it. All romance requires a level of suffering, just don’t step on your crank too much while you’re going about it ’cause you’ll end up looking like a schmuck and make me look bad. And trust me, you don’t have time for that.”
    Andrew stared at him, not knowing what to say, but then spoke somberly, guessing the man was either completely mental or a mind reader. Still, his eyes were so unsettling, but it could be a trick of the light. “Do I know you?”
    “No, you don’t, but you will eventually.” He chuckled dryly. “You’re so damn young—still believe all your choices are up to you, don’t you? Well, keep believing that as long as you can, kid, that’s my advice to you.”
    “I don’t need advice, thank you.”
    “Oh, I think you do. But don’t worry, I won’t let you screw up too badly.”
    The honk of a passing car caught his attention, and when Andrew looked back the homeless man, his grocery cart, the orange tarp—everything was gone. A wave of shocked dizziness overtook him, and he spun around in a vain attempt to locate the panhandler. Hands to knees, he took several deep breaths, willing his clouded vision to clear. A panic attack. He knew the symptoms. That, or someone had slipped something in his water bottle at the show. Was he tripping out after all? He pinched his arm hard until it hurt. No, he was here, now.
    Before he could worry any further, other images began to flash into his mind: an abandoned room full of paying customers who were probably demanding their money back, not to mention the what the fuck? glares of Simon and Christian. Those were real—nothing eerie or supernatural about them unless a vision of his own imminent murder classified as one. He took one last look around the street for a sign of the homeless man and began his return to the Skellar.
    Think , he told himself, he had to think rationally. Whatever delusions he might be suffering, he knew someone at the club must know her. Maybe she had come with friends? After the show he would ask, ask anyone he could get his hands on. The bartender, the bouncer, someone had to have talked with her. The whole way back he plotted. Because she was here. Here.

    Despite the lead guitarist’s aberrant behavior, The Lost Boys still managed two encores. When the cheering eventually died down, Andrew, as planned, immersed himself in the crowd and began to interrogate the fans who remained. Unfortunately, no one knew her, this woman who had knocked over the chair and ran. The girl in the black coat and the high-heeled shoes may as well have been a ghost.
    “Oh, that chick who pissed you off? No idea,” the bartender told Andrew. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, man. There’s gotta be an easier way to deal with hecklers, is all I’m saying.”
    Christ, Andrew thought, now on top of finding her, he had the