I watch her spend two hours between an art supply store and a fabric shop before she eats a mountain of chili fries in a food court while scrolling on her phone. Though she appears busy on that phone, she smiles at anybody that passes her and talks to a fair few of the passersby for any reason she can. Including talking to kids. Complimenting people on their hair or clothes. Striking up conversations with salesclerks.
It’s like she goes about her life trying to make everyone her best friend.
She then buys a pair of men’s sneakers, then some male cologne at a drug store. She tops the evening off by watching an animated kids’ movie alone at the mall. I sit on the opposite side of the theater with a perfect view of her. Not only do I watch her eat two packs of cinnamon gum, chewing each piece for about five minutes before spitting it into a napkin and shoving another piece in her mouth, but then watch her cry at the ending. I’ve also been a witness to her making friends with two mothers and their kids.
Before she leaves the theater she picks up garbage from two chairs on her way out. Not exactly something a slob would take the time to do.
She then walks home. In the dark, which pisses me off. She has no concept of me following her, is completely oblivious and doesn’t hesitate to stop and give money to a homeless guy in a dark doorway while I’m on alert in case I have to come out of the shadows and rescue her.
I’m a professional, so I know how to follow someone without them knowing, but this girl is completely clueless.
She then buys one small and one extra-large smoothie at the coffee shop down the street from her building and I watch her carelessly flounce into the lobby of the building, set down the tray of smoothies and then drop her shopping bags and throw her arms around the security guard who looks old enough to be her grandfather. They then laugh, shoot the breeze, and drink smoothies for twenty-six minutes (she gives him the extra-large one) before she heads to the elevator.
I wait another ten minutes before I head up there.
When I get in, there’s barely room to move inside the door without tripping over six pairs of shoes that weren’t here this morning directly in front of the door. One of them is a pair of men’s shoes, which gives me pause. I watched her buy these size fourteen guy sneakers just hours ago. I glance at the living space, seeing the couch is still covered in clothes and the place reeks of too much cologne – not a feminine one. The bottle of Paco Rabanne One Million I watched her buy at the mall has been spritzed like air freshener.
Her bedroom door is closed, and Barry White is poignantly playing. Not as loudly as Eminem played this morning and yesterday, but loud enough to make her point.
I put away the six-packs of beer and vodka coolers I bought today before I head down the hall, hearing an extra-loud feminine squeal as the song changes to Nine Inch Nails. Closer.
I grind my teeth briefly at the implication. If I hadn’t followed her tonight and thought she really had someone in there with her fucking to this song? I’d be pissed. I’d be done with her for throwing something like that in my face.
Just the notion she wants me to think that she’s fucking someone else? My little vixen is fixing to get her ass spanked.
There was no date. There’s no guy in that room with her. She’s puttin’ on a fuckin’ show with mens’ shoes and cologne and Barry White. And I intend to find out why.
Why is she trying to get rid of me so badly? If she didn’t give a shit, that’d be obvious.
I know what her game is. I just haven’t figured out yet why she’s playing it.
But I will.
The way I’m wired, I do not stop until I figure things out.
10
Ally
I left the apartment this morning with an overnight bag. After I stow it under my desk, I head to Stacy’s cubicle.
“Can I stay with you this weekend?” I ask instead of saying hello.
“Why? Your new roommate too sexy for you?” She smirks and then starts chanting, “I’m… too sexy for my-”
“Like you would not believe,” I cut her off. “I hate him.”
She doesn’t get it and my next vague explanation of him being too into me earns me an eye roll.
“I can’t handle him. He’s creeping me out,” I lie.
“You’ve said that, but I can’t see anything creepy about him,” Stacy denies. “Hot. Tattoos. Muscles. Clean. Does his breath stink?”
He smells and tastes like cinnamon with a hint of fresh rain.