His clothing was no longer just a vaguely sketched outline; like the rest of him, it was now nearly opaque, and looked like something from the 1800s. “Please, sir,” I said, hoping he’d expect me to be shy and respectful, that the tremor in my voice would work for me. “Please, tell me what you’d like me to do.”
His other hand tangled in my hair, and he pulled me close, kissing me. I stiffened in shock, prepared to be disgusted as he pressed my lips open and thrust his tongue into my mouth, but the kiss, like his hands, felt cool and misty. I closed my eyes, relaxing into it, trying to forget what he was and just feel.
He finally broke the kiss, and I looked up at him, hoping for an indication of how to make him continue. The gaunt, cadaverous face had filled out, I realized; he was still pale and faintly luminescent, but he now looked more like he must have when he was alive.
If ghosts were limited to what they’d been like in reality, Mr. Calhoun had probably made his wife – or whoever – very happy back in his day. A classic clean-shaven square jaw, broad shoulders, trim waist; he’d kept himself in shape, and the suit he wore emphasized every inch. That, I thought a little wildly, was why rich people had their clothes tailored, because nothing off the rack looked that good or fit so perfectly, his pants molded over strong looking thighs and the very prominent bulge between them.