The Green Lady Cemetery by Susan Gibb

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The cemetery was an old man’s yawn, broken teeth dotting the dry straw of his tongue. Her tombstone leaned sleepily askew. “Can you can straighten it?” she asked. I wanted to please her but the stone probably weighed 300 pounds. “I’ll need help, but sure.” She smiled and I melted. I poured hot chocolate into her cup. I watched the steaming liquid go down her throat. She is a greenish tone and transparent. I’m totally in love. We met on a dare by my best bud Frankie. “The cemetery’s haunted!” he’d said. Friday night, two carloads of kids, some six-packs, and then The Green Lady herself. Kids screaming and wheeling out of there lickety-split. I passed out. *** “She’s beautiful,” Frankie said. He held the stone level with a crowbar while I shoveled dirt underneath. “You’ve seen her? “Well…just that night.” No one else has felt the cool breeze of her lips. A real woman–well, not real, but more of a woman than any of the girls I’ve dated. “Lift it up so it don’t settle in low.” I tossed in some stones for form, and tamped it down with the shovel. Together we eased the crowbar out and the tombstone settled in place. “Perfect!” I said. *** I usually saw her on Friday nights but now I couldn’t wait that long. There she was, admiring the tombstone. I almost fainted for there too was Frankie, handing her a coke.

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