Trust me, I understand. At any given moment I myself am watching at least three people. By that I mean to say I have my “sights,” at any given moment, on three people. Girls and boys, people I find supreme, amusing, or beautiful. (Do you find me this way? Thank you.) It’s a bit of a game: I stare at them, stare away from them when they may perhaps see me staring, arrange it so that we meet eyes and I can confirm that, at the very least, they don’t hate the sight of me. Maybe this is ordinary, an occupation for my social mind, but I note it, and I note them well.
You, however, pursue. You make your presence known. And, when it becomes known, when I receive your clue, I am sure (you are bright, I know, so you are sure that I am sure) that you are at that very moment in a position such that you see me and, were I to deign to try, I would not see you even if I saw you. Bravo. This is why you will win and I lose.
Possibly you are a female. But since I am one half this duo, let me fill the gaps with what I please. Do you, too, know what I please and what I prefer? You knew well enough that I would smile as I came across the gift you left me. So exactly my taste (but, shame on you, the wrong prescription!) The frames fit me marvelously, and the tortoise shell, of course, compliments my hues. And they are 1950’s cat-eyes, an appreciated garnish. In case you do not have access to my bedroom, know that the glasses sit on my dresser, behind a triptych frame of miniature watercolor nudes that I painted.
I tried at first not to fear, told myself a harmless admirer, or more innocently, a passerby who placed them on the first car trunk available. Though this, so precisely, seems unlikely. But, when you began appearing at the Bowman house, which granted was to begin with fully eerie, my doubt, my instinct grew. It was unpleasant enough, scooping the torrential urine, daily!, from the litter box. I asked myself how such mass was possible. It was unpleasant enough, trying to engage that ruthlessly antisocial cat who made me bleed and stared at me in hatred. It was terribly unpleasant, the disarray and absence of cohesion in all that the couple owned. The towels were unmatching, hideous, and worn. In one room, a wall of folded blankets, equally incoherent. Green fluorescent light! All these things, mere nuisances, conflicts leading to the climax at which I notice, days in a row, that when I arrive, having myself checked and rechecked the door, that indeed it is unlocked. Nothing in the house is missing, nothing visibly manipulated, no furniture rearranged or lights turned on. One key difference: the front door, unlocked. You must have been aware, upon their departure, that they informed me of “no emergency contacts” and “no one has a key.”
Whatever your message, whatever your perfect timing (ah, yes, my golden year is nearly over—and you surely understand the significance of this to me), let me offer just this one request.
But you already know what it is. You whisper, I hear you now, that I am in good hands, trust.
This is scary and alluring. You'll know how gorgeous I think this is the next time I see you.
ReplyDeleteBeginning in the first-person helps the entire essay work. Accepting natural interaction (those boundaries you know so well), desire, and observation makes the deviance, your admirer, even more captivating.
"Appearing" suggests you saw him, though the impression is you haven't.
Emma, your voice!
This is chilling, and I hope not entirely "nonfiction." The first paragraph, which I find as interesting, if not more, than the rest, does not seem necessary to the subject of the stalker, its ending calling to mind the elegant little latin notation, N.B., for nota bene, note well. My bias against the second person has me wondering if the third person might be worth a try (he/she—though that is one blank you fill only by implication). The circumstances of the Bowman's house might need a little more set-up. Cat-sitting, I presume. Great control of the language and voice.
ReplyDelete