The good (ghost) wife's guide

I am the ghost
Lost and abandoned
Spoon-feed me your lies
For the truth is too unbearable

She stands in her heels beating eggs for a cake in the kitchen. Dressed in her Sunday best, strand of pearls around her neck and June Cleaver lace apron tied to her waist. Pork chops and mashed potatoes kept warm in the oven, waiting for the centaur of the house to return home from a hard day at work. She greets him in the foyer by the front door with a double shot of scotch and a warm kiss on his cheek. It is the quintessential perfect picture of an all-American family.

On the outside it was the happy couple, beautiful home, barbecues and block parties. On the inside it was uppers, downers, hard liquor and more than one lady ghost for the centaur on the side.

They sit in silence before their meals. He chases peas around the plate with his fork and chain smokes one cigarette after another. She asks him how work was and pretends to listen to his recounting of the day to day happenings at the office. He doesn’t ask about her day. The thought never entered his mind.

She slices a large piece of cake and pours a glass of milk. He gladly accepts his dessert, kisses her cool ghost forehead and retreats to the television. Settling into the recliner he eats his cake, drinks milk and watches the game with delight.

The ghost clears the table, turns to the sink and washes the dinner dishes. Still in her heels.