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Here is a short sample from the book:
To say that the man that just walked into the ballroom was handsome was an understatement. That’d be like saying that the Stock Market crash of ’29 — the one that cost me my life — was a small blip.
I paused in my conversation with Soldier Boy (you know how terrible it is to forget someone’s name after you meet them, and be too embarrassed to ask them later on? I mean, that was me with Soldier Boy in 1945. After more than 60 years, it’s not like I could ask him now) to stare at the new arrival. The keen fella was tall — enough so where it was a good thing the ballroom, and the rest of the hotel, had elevated ceilings throughout. If he scraped his head against the ceiling he’d muss his perfectly coifed black hair, and we couldn’t have that. He had the partially curly, partially wavy hair, the kind that made you wonder just how long an individual hair was, but where you knew if you dove your fingers into the thickness, you’d spend all day marveling over the softness.
I mean, I had a thing for hair. Any texture, really — you be a ghost for over 85 years and you’d crave touching things too.
And I ab-so-lute-ly wanted to touch New Guy. He was the bee’s knees — his black tuxedo fit his body perfectly, tailored to him and not something bought off the rack. Some of the “newer” ghosts that haunted the hotel with me didn’t understand how I could tell the difference between regular hand made and rag-a-muffin mass produced clothing, but when the clothing you grew up with was made to fit, it was second nature. And how Neon Girl (her 1980’s clothing was an insult to decency) told me about how hand made clothing was now looked down upon, that it was only the poor that sewed? Piffle; that was opposite from my upbringing. Everyone who was anyone had clothes made from scratch, and only the poor bought pre-made stuff from Sears. But apparently Sears was still looked down on, which confused me even more.
New Guy looked around the ballroom, taking note of the various costumes worn by us party-goers, and I felt electricity in the air when his gaze landed on me. I raised my chin and gave him a gentle nod of greeting, trying to be as elegant as my gown was.
He ignored the hotel management that tried to talk to him, and came directly over towards me.
I took a few steps towards him, partially closing the distance, but mostly to get away from Soldier Boy. Soldier Boy had a bad habit of monopolizing the conversation, and I didn’t want anything to get between New Guy and I.
He looked me up and down, probably noting the authenticity of my 1920’s evening gown. If I was going to be on the level, if I knew I was going to spend my undead life in it, I’d have chosen something more comfortable. New Guy probably was just wondering how I managed to get my hands on something that old in such swell condition. I had plenty of offers to buy the dress over the years, with each offer enough so where if I was corporeal, I could be living a nice life.
Which is not to say that I wasn’t corporeal at the moment. I know what you’re thinking — you’re a ghost, you have no body.
Tell that to the dozen ghosts living it up in the ballroom at the moment, dancing with mortals. And the handful who’d already paired up and found an available hotel room.