Golden Box Book Publishing One Picture: Thousands of Words | Page 22

“Name Lorraine,” Flora replied. “You go. Been alone too long.
She nice. Get food; talk; kiss; sex; men need this. She nice. You see.
Go. Five; Saturday; C-312.”
So, Saturday, at four-thirty PM, using the connecting hallways, I
rolled myself over to Lorraine’s apartment. My heart was pounding
in my chest with nervousness as I knocked softly on the door of her
apartment. A few seconds later, the door open. Before stood a pencil-
thin woman with dull color brown hair and matching color eyes—
everything about her screamed: dull! In a dull voice, she said: “Hi.
Jeff?”
“Yes,” I replied, feigning—well, joy. She invited me into the
apartment, and I quickly realized that Flora, and I, had made a
mistake. If that person’s apartment was directly across from mine, it
would be C-313; not C-312. Not knowing what to do or say, I said:
“Do you like living here?”
“Well, I do now,” she replied, sitting down on a couch. “I’m a
quiet person,” she continued. “The neighbor in C-313 was a prostitute
and drug addict—always loud and with men. She OD-ed three
months ago. The stench of her decaying body was overwhelming.
The management placed fans in the windows and kept the lights on
so that it would seem like someone was still living there. They
removed it all today and turned off the lights. It’s over. She’s gone
and forgotten. Sad.”
“Yes,” I replied, in a daze. “Sad. Gone … A picture is worth a
thousand words—but you can’t hold a picture in your arms or make
love to it. It’s the same with a ghost.”