So I married my stalker. I mean, what’s so weird about that? He followed me everywhere anyway, which is a lot more than most women get, I can tell you that.
We met my freshman year at VSCC—me wearing my yellow sports bra and running shorts, he dressed dark and squinting at me like the sun was too bright. Of course, at the time, I hurried home to tell all my roommates about just how freaked out I was because you’ll never believe and all in black. The next day there were twelve roses on the porch—deep red with the note reading, “You’ve pricked my flesh with each of these thorns. My blood waits upon them for you.” And, you know, I don’t know much about poetry, but I kind of shivered at the depth of it all. My roommate, Patricia, said, No, it was weird. But what did she know? Does she know? She’s been married over a year now and all I ever hear is how Dennis didn’t get her anything for Christmas, forgot her birthday.
She told me to throw the note away and I said “okay,” but that night I taped it into my memory book.
Anyway, he kept following me around for a year or so—trying to hide it, then stashing expensive things around my apartment. My friend, Jayne, kept saying, “Girl, where’s the money coming from?” And how was I supposed to know? ’Course, she was just mad because her boyfriend couldn’t hold down a job if you put a gun to his head, and here I was getting those gorgeous chocolates with the little dots of almond at the center and sundresses my size. What’s so wrong with that?
My mother said “plenty.” Not that I’d asked her opinion, ’cause how would she know—she and my father have been sleeping in separate rooms for practically ever. Besides, I figured a few pieces of lingerie in my favorite purple couldn’t really hurt anything—thought it was sweet how he knew so much about bras and evening wear. I mean, how many guys you find with a knack like that? Seems to me, it takes a real sensitivity, someone’s not afraid of his feminine side.
I think I decided this was the real thing somewhere around the time he stole my left shoe at Maxine’s Heel and Toe and snuck in the nude painting he’d done of me. Accurate as anything. I mean I couldn’t believe this guy’s eye for detail—not everyone’s got talent like that; a real future.
So Saturday night when I knew he’d be hanging around, I borrowed Patricia’s sharp poultry knife; and that night in a dark section of the empty parking lot when he cornered me, I put the blade to his throat so that when he turned his head to look away, the littlest bit of perfect red blood came to the surface. “Get in the car,” I said.
We’ve been happy ever since.