I still talk to him, you know. Like he is sitting next to me in the car when I am driving alone.
And he is always a little bored and disinterested and frustrated with his life- even though he knows he is dead.
So I make him laugh. And he laughs that broad Foster laugh.
And he will always be stuck wearing that tweed cap with the Streetlight Manifesto button.
And he always has his foot on the dashboard.
Which can’t be comfortable.
Stuck in traffic… I talk to him. We are stuck in skier traffic.
A dead stop. Rolling a dozen yards every minute or so.
And I’m kind of lucky he’s not really there, because he would have eaten all the chocolate. And this bag, I have to myself.
“I really miss you,” I say.
“I know, dude.” he answers.
“Did you just call me dude?”
I look over at the empty seat. If he were alive, I would have made him drive.
I think he is still sorry that he is dead. But I think he is getting used to it.
“Let’s pretend you’re alive.” I propose.
He laughs, “Yeah, let’s.”
And he says something about walking ahead and having a cigarette.