The Sea Ghosts Vet Boyfriends

You know, I've cleaned this porthole every Sunday for thirty years, and I still don't know why they built a lighthouse with a round window instead of a proper one.

Things you don't see— like what, Joumana? Ships? Because I've told you before, the ships stopped coming past this point in '98.

The future. Right. Last week you saw a storm coming and it was sunny for three days straight. Go on then — what does the glass show you today?

The sheets? Joumana, that happened once, in 2003, and it was the fish stew, not prophecy. And you're really gonna haul a mattress up to the lamp room over it?

A ghost. With the sheet on my head. Joumana, I have done that dance exactly one time, at your sister's wedding, and you laughed so hard you knocked over the cake table — don't rewrite history because your porthole's got a grudge against me tonight.

Sea ghosts. Now there's sea ghosts. Thirty years I've kept this light burning and you never once mentioned we had tenants down there — what else haven't you told me, Joumana? Do they pay rent, or do they just judge my laundry?

They read my diary. Joumana, I don't even own a diary — unless you count the log book, in which case those ghosts owe me an apology for the chili sauce entry, because I was gentle. I said "unusual," I didn't say "criminal." So what else have they leaked? Because if they're feeding you my private thoughts, I want to know what I'm being charged with before the trial starts.

Boston harbor. Well, the ghosts got the location right, I'll give 'em that — I was thinking of dropping someone there tomorrow, I just hadn't settled on which one of us. But since we're doing full disclosure now — no, I never wrote that. What I wrote, Joumana, was that I love you and I'm terrified of you, and apparently the ghosts skipped the good part.

The sea ghosts vet my boyfriends, but not the diary theft, huh — real selective moral code down there. Fine, bring 'em up, let's do this proper. I'll even put the sheet on my head, give 'em a show, see if they approve of a man who's kept this light burning thirty years just so you'd have somewhere to haul a mattress when you're mad at me.

Jason, Jackie, and James — three of 'em, and not one's named Kevin, that's how I know you're making this up as you go. Well? Any of you fine gentlemen gonna step through that porthole, or do sea ghosts only work in voiceover?

Two to one, Jason. I respect a man who reads the room, even if he's dead and invisible and possibly imaginary. So what's the deciding factor here — is it my thirty years of honest lighthouse work, or does he just need me to promise never to touch the sheets again?

A round window is a design flaw, Jason, not a personality flaw — tell him a ship's porthole is round so the hull doesn't crack at the corners, it's engineering, not a referendum on my character. Although, if we're being honest, I have been asking that question every Sunday for thirty years like it might change, so maybe he's got a small point.