Talk to nice sleep.

After doing this as a semi-profession for 30-some years, you'd think it'd get easier.

It never does, though.

Tonight, for instance, it takes me close to an hour before I realize that the woman sitting with

the bridal party isn't actually part of the bridal party.

She's putting on a great show, laughing along with the jokes,

making the motions of raising a glass at every silly toast each member of the bridal party

makes to the young, giggly bachelorette. Notting along to stories they have all heard a hundred times.

When I catch her out of the corner of my eye, or turning to look at her when the table

explodes into hilarious laughter, I think absolutely nothing of it. It isn't until I get

back from going to the bathroom and see the woman still at the table, while the rest of the party

is creating an impromptu dance floor up by the very tiny stage where a shell-shocked guitarist

is trying to fend off their requests for him to play the entire Taylor Swift catalog,

that I realize I've completely had the wrong impression. I thought she was alive, and she very much is not.

Not feeling the groove, huh? I ask her, as I take my drink from my corner booth and sit down at the table.

The shock on her face tells me I'm correct in my assessment.

An hour late, but correct.

You can see me?

She asks, I nod.

Oh, God, you can see me! Someone can see me! She asks, I nod. Oh, God, you can see me!

Someone can see me!

She reaches across the table to take my hands, but hers only drift through mine like they're

...