We all have ghosts. The people who were once in our lives, but who are now gone, for whatever reason. My obvious ones would be my mother and father: it's nearly 10 years for Daddy, and more than half my life for Mom. But it isn't them haunting me tonight. It's two others.

Before I knew Right Thinking Girl, I had a Z of my own. I believed that the sun shone out of his ass. In fact, he was the biggest ass under the sun. It isn't often that a guy can break a girl's heart, and abscond with forty thousand dollars at the same time, leaving her devastated and bankrupt. He was my white picket fence guy. He was the one I had baby names picked out for. Daniel Elvis and Vivien Leona. They would have been beautiful babies, I assure you. It wasn't until recently that I wondered exactly where that forty grand went. I have my suspicions. Anyone have the number for CSIS? Anyway, it took a move to Western Canada, to the frozen wasteland of (d)Edmonton, to freeze the anger and the love out of me. Upon my return to civilization two years later, I wondered if I was truly cured of his poison. To this day I cannot confirm it. I haven't seen him since December 16, 1998, when I bumped into him in the mall, and told him I was leaving town. He went to kiss my cheek. I backed so far away from him that I knocked over a mannequin. So why am I telling you about him? Why is he even in my head tonight? Well, he turned forty last week. I fell in love with him on his thirtieth birthday. He comes to mind every August around this time.

Before I knew Mr. Right, I met an angel. Not the great winged beasts of biblical fiction. A real flesh-and-blood human being who had been touched by the divine to fulfill a purpose: to save my life. I had been orphaned less than a year. He had a perfect smile. His twin brother was better looking (go figure). Their mother made Lucretia seem friendly, and Medusa attractive. She hated me, and I sometimes thought she hated them, too. August fifth was a friend's 21st birthday, and my angel and I went to the bar with the gang. There was much merry-making, and several dozen shots of tequila. We drove back to my place around five AM. I made coffee. He told me he was tipsy. He kissed me. He said I tasted sweet. I told him it was the brandy in the coffee. We spent five months together. In those five months, I faced some of the hardest emotions I have ever felt. Grief. Panic. Helplessness. Fear. More grief. When I woke up in the hospital that October afternoon, it was his face I saw, silhouetted by the flourescent lights: a halo. When I was too jittery to sleep, it was he who made up stories that made me laugh. And when I was on my feet again, strong enough to stand on my own, it was he who left me. I truly believed in some deep part of me that he would come back in five years. Five years. Long enough to finish school, establish himself, and get out from under the watchful glare of Lucretia. I waited five years before allowing myself to love Mr. Right. It's now been nine. I wrote my first novel last year. I will dedicate it to him. It was August when I loved him. I never stopped.

These are the ghosts that haunt me tonight. The boys of summer.