I don’t know how she got in, but she likes to call out the dust on my blinds, the dishes in my sink, the tone in my voice.

I tick something off the list. Guilt slips her arm over my shoulder, whispers in my ear about the three other things I didn’t do. 

When I get something done, she slips into bed next to me, touches my face and says, “But honey, you didn't do it very well.”

I glance to my right, at the novel sitting neatly between Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien and Driving over Lemons by Chris Evans. My last name is written in bold capitals down the spine. I snort as I picture the ghost of Tolkien, a distinguished man with a comb over in coattails, standing with his hands in his pockets and looking between me and my bookshelf with arched brows as if to say, ‘You really think it belongs there? Next to me?’