A Fan of No Importance

I slide into the booth opposite him with with a smile that disarms myself more than anyone else. "Good evening. May I buy you a drink?"

He looks up at me, a piercing stare buried under flippantly long hair. "You are not my type."

"Well of course not, otherwise you'd be the one buying." I pour on the charm, praying it plays out.

Lady luck favors me for once. "Fair point."

"Beer?"

"So long as it is distilled and aged at least three years."

"Right." I order two whiskeys and then settle in, rubbing my arms nervously. My charm slips a bit and nothing escapes his notice.

"You protest buying a ghost a drink?" He enunciates the word ghost, as if I would have some other reason to feel uncomfortable. Such as talking to myself in a room full of strangers, in a country I've never set foot in before today.

"Absolutely not. If I were dead I'd rather a stiff drink than a stiff bouquet."

"You should not worry about the stares. As an American they already consider you crazy." He waves off my worries, the heavy rings on his fingers seemingly weightless. "I take it you came with questions?"

"Not really. Just to chat."

"Really? What a droll date you make."

"I'm actually married," I admit, my liquid courage arriving in the nick of time. I take a quick sip and try not to gag.

"As am I. Apparently it is still a necessary evil."He winks and points to his drink. "I would propose a toast to useless conversation, if I were not so useless myself."

I raise my glass again in salute. "To the importance of being earnest, in friendship if nothing else."

He pauses, staring down at the table. "I fear you may not find me an ideal idol."

"Who said anything about idols? I merely admire a good turn of phrase." I adopt my best British air and he relaxes, smirking at my impression.

"Americans still read at least. Good to know."

"That's rather presumptious of you. For all you know we watch all our dramas played out off the page."

"If you knew me only by stages, I doubt I would leave much impression with you." He sinks back - into what I have no idea, since the seat offers no ethereal support - and considers me. "What brought you in today?"

"Respect for the dead?"

"You should respect the living, they have more to offer you." He sighs and stares longingly at the glass in front of him. "Sadly the afterlife has fewer spirits than I would like."

"I imagine it has too many, and cannot imbibe much more." I respond, trying my best to choke down another sip of something arguably stronger than me.

"When I wrote Canterville I had no idea how miserable a character a ghost could be. I underestimated the sober dead."

After a longer sip than before, I offer, "Should I cry and pray for you?"

He shakes his head. "I would rather sit here in sobriety than move on to whatever hells I have yet to see."

Whether from the alcohol or curiosity, a question burns my tongue. "Was it a self portrait, then?"

His head snaps up and his focus sharpens on my own. I nearly melt under the intensity of his gaze. "What if it were? Should I devolve into a grotesque, mishapen soul here as I sit, and set you off your drink? Allow the sins society cast upon me to twist my visage into the repugnant image they painted of me, at the end?"

I stare back, steeling my own resolve to say what I realize now led me to this place. "You have no sins to forgive, except for exacerbating wit and candor. If any hell awaits you, I imagine it holds better company than the one you lived through."

A small eternity passes. At last he smiles and a cold hand grasps my shoulder. "Then my friend, I look forward to seeing you there."

And like the condensation on my glass, he dissipates into thin air.

I sit alone, two glasses before me. Draining my own, I set it down and hold my breath until the pain passes. "I'll do my best, Mr. Wilde." I murmur. Then quickly lift and down the second before I can fully recover from the first.