Chapter 7: October 24 - Your Halloween Stalker

Evening gorgeous,

Yeah, I hurt him. There, sweetheart. We can get that out of the way before you spend six pages trying to decide whether I'm going to confess. The man from the bar is alive and in hospital because I put him there, and I'm not sorry. You went out with your friend last night. You wore black jeans, that fitted top you pretend is "nothing special," and the lace mask stayed tucked inside your handbag the whole time. You checked for it twice like it was some touchstone. I noticed because of course I fucking did.

For most of the night, I watched from far enough away that you got to forget about me for a while. You laughed. You drank something pink you claimed was too sweet and then ordered another one. Your friend made you show her a photograph on your phone and you both nearly choked laughing. You looked happy, I loved that you looked happy. Then an idiot put his hand on your waist. You moved away and he followed. You gave him that polite smile you use when you're trying to reject somebody without making him feel rejected, and you were still trying to be nice to the asshole after you'd already moved away from him.

He didn't take the hint.

Your friend told him to back off. You said you weren't interested. But he still moved closer anyway, then caught your wrist when you tried to step around him. You started yelling, and good for you. You shouted for him to let go, it made people look over. So he released you and laughed like he had been part of some joke you were too sensitive to understand. Then you apologized to the bartender for "making a scene." That almost made me angrier than his hand did.

You didn't make the fucking scene; he did, and I wish you'd stop cleaning up the emotional mess left by people who behave badly around you, smoothing things over for them and then going home wondering whether you were the one who overreacted. You weren't rude, you weren't asking for his hand on you because you wore a fitted top, and you know damn well you'd say exactly that if it happened to another woman. I need you to stop being kinder to every asshole around you than you are to yourself.

I'm thankful your friend got you home, because I followed him. What happened near the river belongs to me. You didn't ask for it, and I'm not calling it a gift. He put his hands on you after you told him no, so I followed him. I'm not dressing it up into something prettier. I know your friend saw the news report before you did and called the detective. Again, that was her. You didn't suddenly decide you were afraid of me. And when she arrived at your office, she had already told him about the man from the bar.

You looked at the photograph on the screen and I know you knew I did it. There was this look on your face, and it wasn't fear. I'll admit that did something good to my ego. The detective asked for the newer letters. You told him there was nothing relevant to the assault. I know yesterday's letter was in your bag. The lace mask was in there too, and when you showed him neither one, your friend realized immediately because of course she fucking did. She waited until the detective stepped away and asked why the hell you were protecting me.

You said, "I'm not protecting him but I am keeping something for myself." That sentence has been under my skin all day. But now, beautiful, I'm done pretending I only want to watch you drink coffee and argue with homewares prices. I want you without dressing the thought up as anything sweeter.

The mask has been in my head since yesterday. So has the mirror. Tonight the fantasy changed because I stopped imagining you frozen between curiosity and uncertainty.

In my head, you turn around.

You put your hands on me first. You hook your fingers into my shirt and pull me down until the black mask is close enough to brush your cheek. You tell me I've talked far too much for a man who has spent a week hiding behind paper. Then you kiss me like you're annoyed about how much you wanted to. That right there has been fucking with my head all night. I don't want resistance or some little game where I pretend you're less willing than you are. The exact opposite turns me on more. I want to know what you look like when you stop apologizing for wanting something.

Give me greedy hands, an honest mouth, and tell me what you like without softening it into a suggestion because you're worried about being demanding. You spend all day making yourself easy for other people. If I ever get you alone, give me difficult and selfish for once. I want the woman who knows what she wants and expects me to keep up. That's plenty for tonight. Tomorrow I may lose these last scraps of good manners.

Yours, and definitely not getting any saner.

P.S. Like I said, the man from the bar will live. Whether he ever laughs at a woman for telling him to let go again is his problem to deal with.