They would be ghosts, if I'd done my job.
I look down, suppress laughter, and crumple the napkin into my pocket. One of these days this jacket will be excavated, and whoever reads the endless torn bits of cocktail-napkin haiku is going to kill himself or get so drunk that the difference is mere semantics. I am not a good poet. Neither am I a happy poet.
Jack silently refills my glass, and I give him a half-smile. He does not approve of the drinking. I look like a teenager and always will, and I believe that his disapproval is a combination of the emotional impact of seeing a "kid" drink and the notion he has that I've been modded to look like a kid. Jack is 100% natural. He hides his disgust for modding very well - has to, if he wants to run a club in this day and age. But he and I know each other a little better than that. The amount of bourbon that lies between us gives us a certain amount of familiarity.
I told him what I really am once. He didn't believe me. No one ever does. That's the only reason I feel safe telling those scattered few who I think have earned a piece of the truth of me. Their disbelief protects them - but I have told them what they deserve to know. I have been honorable.
I don't have much. But I have my honor.