Epilogue: October 31 - Your Halloween Stalker

Two Years Later

Hey beautiful wife,

Fuck, I like writing that. Wife. One year ago today you married your stalker, which means either I'm exceptionally persuasive or your decision-making skills remain deeply fucking questionable.

Happy anniversary, sweetheart.

Also, happy two years since you told me to chase you through a Halloween maze and promised I could fuck you if I caught you. Still one of the greatest sentences anyone has ever said to me, although ‘I do’ gave it some serious competition.

I've been thinking about those first letters today, mostly because you found the box this morning and sat on the bedroom floor reading them while laughing at how completely fucking unhinged I was.

Was.

Cute that you used the past tense, considering I knew you were reading them because I was standing outside the bedroom door watching you for ten minutes before you noticed me.

Marriage has changed plenty, but apparently that part of me survived just fine. Now when I follow you somewhere, you usually know I'm there.

Usually.

You've also developed a deeply concerning habit of stalking me back, which nobody warned me could happen. Apparently marrying a possessive lunatic unlocked something in you because the woman who once thought I was unreasonable nearly committed a felony six months ago because some woman touched my arm while laughing at something I said.

Who fucking knew? I certainly didn't, but I was fucking delighted.

Your friend was less impressed when you told her about it, although the fact that you can tell her shit like that now without her immediately searching how to make your best friend join witness protection feels like progress.

She came around eventually. Very, very fucking eventually.

I think realizing you were genuinely happy helped, although I'm fairly certain she still has a contingency plan involving a shovel if I ever hurt you. I respect that. We've reached a comfortable place where she accepts that I love you, I accept that she would help dispose of my body, and somehow family dinners still work.

Beautiful domestic bliss.

Speaking of things that haven't changed, apparently I still have an underwear problem, although in my defense you knew that when you married me. There were signs. Several pairs of them, actually.

You threatened last week to start counting your underwear because another pair disappeared, which seems unnecessarily hostile considering we both know exactly where they went. They're in my drawer, the one you pretend you don't know about despite periodically adding new pairs to it yourself just to see how long it takes me to notice.

Fucking psycho.

God, I love you.

And yes, before you ask, I still think about your pussy far more often than is probably reasonable for a married man who has regular access to it. Maybe it's because I have regular access to it.

I spent all that time before we met imagining what you would taste like and how you would feel, then Halloween happened and reality completely fucking ruined fantasy for me. Two years later I still haven't recovered because you taste better, feel better and make noises my fucked-up brain never managed to invent properly.

Somehow I can have you in our bed at night, wake up with you wrapped around me in the morning and still catch myself staring at you over dinner wondering how quickly I can get you upstairs.

I'm beginning to suspect there is no cure, which is tragic, please don't seek treatment.

There are quieter things I love too, although admitting that feels dangerously close to ruining my reputation. I love that you still swear at your coffee when it burns your tongue, that October turns our house into a fucking Halloween store before the first week is over, and that you buy yourself the stupid things now instead of standing in front of them for twenty minutes explaining why you don't need them.

I fucking love that when I tell you you're beautiful, you don't immediately give me a list of reasons I'm wrong anymore.

Most of the time, anyway. We're still working on that.

I also love being your husband far more than someone with my general personality should probably enjoy anything this wholesome. Sometimes I look at my ring and think about the absolute sequence of terrible choices that got us here, and somehow the end result is you asleep beside me every night with your leg thrown over mine like you're worried I might escape.

As if.

You're never getting rid of me. Never.

There's one future version of you I sometimes catch myself thinking about too, although not yet and not until we both decide we're ready.

But someday, if we choose it together, I want to watch your body change with our baby. I want to see you grow round with something we made together, put my hands over your stomach and become so fucking unbearable about both of you that your friend probably stages another intervention for old times' sake.

I already know I'd be insane. Well... more insane, whatever.

We have time.

For now, I have my wife, our first wedding anniversary, a suspiciously depleted underwear drawer and plans for later tonight that are absolutely none of your friend's business.

Happy anniversary, sweetheart. I'm so fucking glad I started stalking you.

Probably not something Hallmark is going to print on a card anytime soon, but Hallmark has always lacked imagination.

You're mine and I'm yours, still completely, disgustingly, obsessively fucking yours.

Here's to another year of marriage, questionable behavior and mutual stalking.

Your husband, still your stalker and always your fucking psycho.

P.S. I know you stole one of my shirts this morning and wore it while you were reading the old letters. You can keep it, I took your underwear in exchange.

Marriage is about compromise.