Ghost
“He was really hot, from what I remember,” she says.
I conjure up his image in my mind. Blonde hair. Scruffy beard. Calculator watch. “Yeah. He was really good looking. And he was a sculptor.” I picture him in his studio, squishing the clay between his rough palms. Running his wet fingers down a canal of damp earth. He’s got terracotta-crusted hands. He’s got sweat on his upperlip. “God. You can’t do any better than a sculptor,” I say.
“Oh god. Yeah. So sexy. All I can picture is that scene from Ghost,” she says.
I laugh for a minute at this. Then I laugh harder. “Yeah. Exactly like Ghost”
