The shoelace on his left shoe was always undone. It wasn’t on purpose; things in his life were always fraying a bit, coming apart at the seams. His hair was stringy, naturally fine and thin. It was light brown, peppered with grey. The color was fading despite his relative youth. His eyes were blue, so shallow they seemed silvery. His complexion was smooth, and you couldn’t see his veins…One might idly wonder if any blood at all flowed in those cheeks.

His body was a house untended, as if Wallace Barton had left years ago on extended vacation. He was fading, slowly but surely, into obscure, frightening legend just as any house standing empty for too long does.

He was absolutely fascinating, and he sat in front of me in Chemistry. His voice was rare but thick and silky. He never met anyone’s eyes, keeping his head down and staring alternately at separate points in undefined space.

We sat at the same table at lunch. Sort of. He sat at the farthest edge of the other half of the table, my friends obliviously, but altogether unintentionally leaving a force field of space between us and him.

I wanted to talk to him, but it felt wrong. He wanted his privacy, and I didn’t want to be the one to intrude. He was so distant from us all…

Years have passed since I knew Wallace. I’m older now, and care not for empty houses or blank stares. Or so I tell myself.

Sometimes I catch myself staring the same way he used to, left shoelace undone. Then I snap back to reality, tie my shoe and get back to work.

I’m a party planner-definitely not what I planned on being. But that part of my life is really un-important. My focus lately has been on finding the perfect man—and marrying him. Lately, I haven’t been doing so well.

I keep falling in love with the same man.

I keep falling in love with Wallace Barton.

The world is full of men, my friends tell me, plenty of fresh, attractive, talkative fish in the sea. But they’re boring. Blathering on and on about some new account or their new cars or a new discovery or a new drink. Trying to impress me or something.

But to get my attention, all a man has to do is shut his mouth.

I don’t know what it is. I like mystery, I suppose.

After high school, I had a string of boyfriends, all loud, all boisterous and macho. Then college started, and they got me into all kinds of trouble. I started drinking.

And smoking.

And popping pills.

And dropping acid.

I suppose that last arrest did it for me, and the time I spent in prison changed me.

I kept thinking back to high school and those shallow blue eyes. Somehow, through all the years and the haze of rehab, Wallace Barton helped me through it all. The times where I’d be ready to quit, the vision of he would loom.

Things in my life cleaned up. I got better.

But I was still emotionally codependent on a ghost, a memory. So I started to date him. Wherever I could find him.

But loving a stoic is unfulfilling. They never smile. They never laugh. A kiss is a rare and beautiful jewel.

I don’t think I do it on purpose. Maybe I do…It’s always the same.

“I love you.”

“Hmmm. Pass the ketchup.”

Perhaps it’s not that they’re impassive.

Perhaps it’s that not a one of them has been Wallace Barton.