Jellybean flips her pillow to the cool side; fourteen straight hours of lying prone, sighing wistfully at the reflection mirrored back to her in the dormant black screen of her cell phone, had rendered its 400 thread count silk damp and steamy. She plucks the cold metal rectangle from where it rests atop her nightstand and taps it awake, still nothing. Not from him, not from anyone. Another sigh as she tucks it under her pillow and drifts off to a fitful sleep.
He comes to her in a dream, pants down (she surreptitiously checks his underpants for skid marks; there aren’t any this time, thank god, what a fucking loser) and apologetic, begging for her forgiveness, despite his burgeoning boner.
“I’m sorry I wouldn’t ever kiss you on the mouth.”
“I’m sorry I referred to you as a ‘situationship’ in front of my friends.”
“I’m sorry I forgot to return your many calls or text you back for the last three weeks even though you’ve seen me actively posting on Instagram like every single day.”
She smiles and beckons him to join her beneath the fluffy duvet. It’s kinda hard to be mad at a man who is…kinda hard? They put their past issues literally behind them: that time he didn’t bring enough money to pay for his half of dinner, that scorned ex-lover who ran up on them at the movies that he tried to play off as his sister, those titties that popped up on his phone when he thought she wasn’t looking that Jellybean knew didn’t belong to her—all temporarily expelled from her mind by his repeated thrusts into her from the rear, her insides exploding like holiday fireworks as she climaxes.
Jellybean awakens with a gasp, sweaty and panting, looking desperately around the room for the man from her dream. He wasn’t a ghost, but she’s just been ghosted.