Ghosts

There were times when living with Combeferre was a little like sharing an apartment with a benevolent ghost, present in silences and sighs and half-drunk cups of coffee you were almost sure you didn’t put down yourself, in books and pair of glasses on the table that didn’t belong to you. Or as a voice, low in your ear, or drifting in from just around the corner, or pressure, hands against your shoulders and your hair, there then gone.

There were others when it was nothing like that at all.