Winter Oranges by Marie Sexton

the script in his hands, he couldn’t do it. The words kept jumping around the page, the letters rearranging themselves right before his eyes, and he began to panic. Tryss, the extra who was still paying for her boob job, stood off-scene, waiting to take his place if he couldn’t get his shit together.
    “Come on, Jason,” Dylan said to him at last. “Even you couldn’t pass that up.”
    He woke shortly after ten. He lay there for a minute, thinking about Dylan, and about the script downstairs, shut up in the drawer of the writing desk in the corner of the living room. He didn’t need a dream analyst to tell him he was worrying about both, but he thought his subconscious had played a bit dirty.
    He pulled on a pair of sweats and wandered downstairs, still rubbing his eyes. He rounded the corner into the dining room and stopped short. He’d nearly forgotten about the snow globe and its ghost occupant, but now here they both were, the former sitting on the table where he’d left it, the latter standing at the window, looking out. Sunshine poured through the glass, and straight through Ben as well, making the upper half of his body nearly invisible, although his lower half looked relatively solid. It was a disconcerting sight.
    “You’re here,” Jason said.
    Ben whirled around to face him, and Jason was reminded of the first time he’d ever laid eyes on Ben—the expression of shock and surprise on Ben’s face, his full lips forming a perfect O—but this time, the surprise quickly gave way to pleasure. Ben started talking, gesturing out the window at the garage, at Jason, at the room around them. His pale, slender hands flew around his head like frantic little birds as he talked, and his face was bright with excitement. Jason was almost glad he couldn’t hear him. He wasn’t awake enough yet to deal with the rush of words that was obviously pouring from Ben’s mouth.
    Jason held up his hand. “Hang on. Let me get some coffee.”
    Ben put the fingers of both hands over his lips, but Jason was sure even that couldn’t stop Ben from talking for long.
    He went past Ben into the kitchen. Ben followed him as far as the doorway, then stood there, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet, watching.
    “It’s a Keurig,” Jason said, “so it’ll only take a minute.”
    He felt silly as soon as he said it. Would Ben know what a Keurig was?
    “I tried to find you yesterday,” he said to Ben as his cup began to fill. “Where were you?”
    Ben frowned, then put his hands together as if praying and laid them next to his cheek.
    “Sleeping?”
    Ben nodded.
    “All day?”
    Ben frowned and shook his head. He said a single word. Rusting? Jason laughed, realizing his mistake. Resting .
    Ben pointed toward the window and the garage, then at Jason, his eyes begging the question.
    “I thought maybe you’d like a change of scenery.”
    Ben smiled broadly and nodded.
    Jason pulled his full coffee mug out of the brewer. Ben stepped aside to allow him to pass, and Jason couldn’t help but wonder if it was necessary. He suspected he could have stepped right through his new guest, although he wasn’t anxious to test his theory.
    He took his coffee through the dining room, across the entryway and into the living room. The old-fashioned foursquare floor plan meant each room was distinctly separate from the others, unlike newer homes with their large open spaces and wide doorways.
    “So,” Jason said as he set his coffee down on the end table, “how often has this—” But when he turned to face Ben, he was surprised to find nobody there. “Ben?” he called.
    Stupid, of course. Ben couldn’t answer him. Or, more accurately, he might be able to answer, but Jason wouldn’t be able to hear him.
    “Ben?”
    He backtracked to the door of the living room. Ben stood directly across the hall from him just inside the door of the dining room, looking anxious.
    “Aren’t you coming?” Jason asked.
    Ben shook his head,