She eventually comes back. Much later than usual. The man is gone. Probably off in the woods crying. She has a dollop of stray ketchup on her mouth. Such an adorable dollop. I should tell her it's there. But I like it. It relaxes comfortably on her cheek having found its new home. A lovely home. It's like our own little secret. I rest my chin in my hands and enjoy the chills and warmth that come with watching her. She disenfranchises me. Badly.
I'm in trouble. I've been watching her too much. My work is suffering. My boss wants to fire me. I have to stay focused. I have to conquer my spreadsheets and reports and updates.
Spreadsheets. Reports. Updates. Hands resting lazily at her waste...
I can't be fired. I have to keep seeing her. I work extra hard. I still watch her. Three times a day, like clockwork. But when she's gone my eyes and my computer fuse once more to live amongst the dead. And there is nothing until I see her again.
Today she is limping. It makes me sad. I can't be sad for long, but I mourn for her as she hobbles by my window. I could make it all better. I really could. Her khaki skirt looks uncomfortable as she painfully works her way across the rocks. Why doesn't she stay in the office? What is so important?
And I'm in my computer.
She comes back with dirt on her face. This is strange.
You'll be okay, I say to her quietly, I won't let anything happen to you. I will keep you. You will be mine and we'll walk together forever, just the two of us. Let me hold your hand. Let me touch your lips. I won't kiss them. No. I just want to feel them under my fingers.
My boss wants to talk to me. I snap to attention. I can't let him see the reason for my misbehavior. It's okay, he just wants to know when my reports will be submitted. I'm like a lonely pine tree, facing nothing but an empty forest and pretending I love it. Pretending I need it. Pretending it keeps me alive. But it doesn't.
Only she does.
It must be casual Friday. She is in jeans and a t-shirt. Sneakers on her feet. I picture her toes - the ones I glimpsed when she wore her wedge sandals. Her second toe was longer than her first. It was tantalizing. And now I'm lost in thoughts of her eloquent toe - perhaps an inheritance of royalty. The Queen of England has a second toe longer than the first. I think. It means something special. It explains these feelings inside me. It explains my obsession. She has something special. A special thing that grips me, shakes me, and tears my body into strips of senseless hide, ready for tanning. I will never let her go. I will never stop watching her. She will always be in my protection.
I throw my computer out the window. I smash it with my foot until it has become a welcoming and inviting pile of beach sand, welcoming me in for a rest. She would like this. She could put her toes in it. They would feel good.
That's what I want to do. But instead, I'm typing. I'm typing an email about something stupid to someone I don't care a rats ass about. But I say please and thank you. Because that's what mom always taught me. And it's important that people think you're happy. You don't get fired when people think you're happy. And then you get to watch the girl. The girl that creeps under your skin and scratches the raw bone with the nails on her right hand.
And the harder she scratches the more whole you feel.
She comes back through the parking lot. This time I'm not disciplined. I can't stop thinking about her. I must schedule my time with her. I mustn't get fired.
Her shirt is hanging off her shoulder and I notice a small tear in the fabric. She's spilled ketchup on herself again, this time on her jeans. She seems lost. Bewildered. Hurt. I want to kill someone. I want to find the bastard hiding at the end of her daily sojourn, rip his jaw off and shove it up his ass with my bare hands. Just like in the movies. I could do it. I could protect her. She needs me.
I will always be here for you. Always watching.
Email me at pjhaynie at yahoo dot com for a free copy of my short story romance, Losing You!
