Merlot scrubbed grease off pans at Pizza Plaza, his mother's favourite local spot. It wasn't glamorous work, but the steady paycheck kept his landlord from pounding on his door.
Still, he missed working for Graydon. Red-penning stack after stack of term papers was a breeze compared to scraping burnt cheese off pizza trays.
To make matters worse, with his mother now living in Toronto, the restaurant just felt like an empty reminder of who wasn't coming through the door.
At least the commute was easy. Once his shift wrapped up, he only had to walk two blocks to reach his apartment.
"Hey, Merlot, got any leftover pizza?"
Merlot turned sharply, narrowing his eyes at Lemmony standing on the sidewalk outside the window of the restaurant.
"No. The lights are off, Lemmony. Go away," Merlot snapped, pointing a sudsy finger at the CLOSED sign hanging on the front door.
"Why, that's no way to talk to me! After all, you thought I was attractive-"
"I thought wrong. Now go-"
"Let me guess," Lemmony chuckled, leaning against the glass. "You still genuinely believe you're an author and not just text on a page?"
"Why wouldn't I—"
"Because every book knows its real creator," Lemmony cut in softly, tapping the pane. "The Sangria War isn't yours, Merlot. You're just living in it."
"I live in New York, not Intermarium. I'm not Lolita. I don't need some ghost telling me what's real. Why do you think I'm writing The Sangria War? It's how I coped with Vietnam."
"Except you are the ghost." Lemmony's smile faded. "You never came back from Vietnam."
"I stepped off that damn plane!" Merlot snapped.
"You buried your father's son over there, didn't you?" Lemmony murmured against the glass.
"It was easier to let him rot and wake up as someone else."
"No! I came back because I had my mother waiting—I had to come back for her!"
"She ran north the second your father traded you for a draft card," Lemmony whispered, tapping the glass. "She wasn't at the gate. Nobody was holding a sign for a ghost."
"No, I saw her face. She promised she'd wait at the fence—"
"Did you?" Lemmony's voice dropped. "Then why doesn't Alan remember you? Your mother wasn't the only one who forgot you."
"A—Alan?" Merlot choked out, his eyes widening. "How the hell do you know Alan?"
"Pardon me, but I happen to know a great deal more about you than you ever cared to realize, Merlot," Lemmony said, hopping onto the bicycle leaning against the grey wall. "You're the one who needs a wake-up call. People who take bullets to the chest rarely get up to wash dishes."
Lemmony rode off into the dark.
Merlot closed his fist.
How the hell did Lemony know so much about him without ever being told?