Absolutely present tense

There are about two tons of Stephanie's stuff lying around the apartment. Some of it is in boxes, some on the table, some on the floor, and all of it will be part of my planned "Steph Shrine" in the living room.
One of those possessions is her cell phone, sitting on top of her pillows, in a box jammed full of stuff, on top of another box full of stuff. Her phone rang today. It was eerie to hear that familiar ringtone, and bonkers thoughts went through my mind.
My first thought was that she's calling me, and I'd better spring out of my chair and answer the phone before she decides I'm not home and hangs up. I moved quickly, believe me, but such fantasies had already been dismissed before I was halfway to the phone.
As I reached for it, I was asking myself whether I wanted to answer it or not. Do I really want to explain to whoever's calling why Stephanie can't come to the phone? But not many people have Steph's cell number (she preferred the landline), so I figured it had to be someone she knew, or something important. I'm trying to honor her by being a nicer man, so I answered it.
No, Stephanie does not want to donate to Scott Walker's re-election campaign for Governor of Wisconsin, and I'm flabbergasted that her number ended up on their list. As Governor, Mr Walker has worked very hard to ruin the economy in Wisconsin, reduce health care and generally make life miserable for poor folks, dismantle unions, oppose the concept of civil rights except for gun nuts, keep prisons cruel and overcrowded, keep marijuana illegal and keep state government as corrupt as possible. He's the personification of the opposite of Stephanie's politics, and my own. I donated a profanity instead, and then sent another $25 to the Democrat running against Walker.
* * * * * * * * * *
For all our years together, whenever I came home, if Steph was there she'd say "Doug?" as soon as I'd opened the door and stepped inside. I miss that, but I'm no longer expecting Stephanie to be at home when I get back from work or the grocery store or wherever.
When I open the door and step inside the apartment, though, I've continued being surprised that she's not sitting at the desk, playing games on her computer or watching Judge Judy. I reckon being disappointed dozens of times has let it start sinking in, because lately I don't even have the brief fraction-of-a-second flash of habitual optimism. Nope, I'm going to open the door and step inside an empty apartment and spend the evening alone.
* * * * * * * * * *
A couple of days ago, sitting in the living room, I heard a noise that seemed to come from down the hall, where the bedroom is. It was nothing the heat coming on, or the cat attacking a piece of fuzz on the carpet, or perhaps a car passing on the street outside. But for a quarter of a moment it could be her, and then, of course, it couldn't be.
* * * * * * * * * *
Some nights, just before I fall asleep, in that final fog before fading off, I think of something I'd like to do with Stephanie. Or for Stephanie. 
     ... We should go for a walk together.
          ... It's been too long since I bought some of the fancy ice cream she likes.
... Tomorrow I'll get up early and surprise Steph with some cookies from the bake shop. ...
Very quick, fleeting thoughts, but absolutely present tense, as if she's still alive. For a fraction of a second there's a tomorrow with Stephanie in it. Of course, it jolts me wide awake, back to this tedious unwanted reality. It's a vastly overrated concept — reality — and not my favorite place to be.
* * * * * * * * * *
I dream about Stephanie quite frequently, sometimes several times in the same night, crossing over to the edge of sleep and back again before tossing and turning. Waking up from the dreams is disorienting and depressing, but the dreams themselves are invariably sweet. Honestly, those momentary glimpses of a little more life with Stephanie are worth the sadness that comes with awakening.
In a dream the other night, Stephanie and I were talking, and it was wonderful. I was in the shower, and she came into the bathroom to use the toilet. Yeah, life was cramped sometimes in our apartment. Then suddenly I remembered that she's supposed to be dead, yet we were talking like everything's normal. I can't remember what exactly she said in my dream, but she was talking about the cat. I was so happy and excited to hear her voice, I yanked the shower curtain out of the way to see, and her voice ceased, and I was looking at an empty toilet – in my dream, that is. I was actually in bed, of course, but the dream left me rattled and unable to get back to sleep.
Carl Jung, the Swiss psychologist, said that dreams reveal more than they conceal. I dreamed of Stephanie, and then she was gone and there was only a toilet. Nobody needs a psychoanalyst to figure out what that means.