Stalker

I embrace the nocturnal shade coiled beneath tangerine lamplight on the corner of the street in case a certain little lady walks by. I am ever watchful in the telephone kiosk bathed in smells of damp directories, of urine and pubescent vandalism; silhouetted at the mouth of the tubeway entrance; sat in the rusting Lada across the road; ever watchful, gaze unwavering, unflinching. I have perfected the dead-eye stare. I am the vigilant sentinel. I am watching you. Wherever you choose to go I am mere footsteps away, dogging your trail. At the salon I watch your pale tresses cut and blown dry through stencilled window glass. That time I got a lock of your hair. I like to collect souvenirs. They bring us closer. I know you know I am here, I make certain of that; dead certain. I want you to know I am here, always present on the periphery of your vision; live ghost haunting your existence. The police have made empty threats, charges of loitering with intent. Intent to do what, though? That is the question. Intent to do what? It is for me to know and you to discover. This is the game, my sweet, the game we play. I feel your fear when you pick up the 'phone and no one answers, only the romance of dead silence; I can smell your sweat leaking down the line, taste your breath, sharp and spicy with fear, burning down the line. I sense your arousal, the wetness of your loins, slick with the lubricant of anticipation, of desire, of surrender. But we do not speak, no, not yet, but soon. Be patient, beloved, be patient as I am patient, stoic and timeless and patient. I hear you sobbing, crying down the line, hear the crystal crash of vodka glass shattered against the wall. Be patient, calm yourself, for soon, very soon, we will meet...and then my intent will become clear... as clear as those shards of shattered crystal, my sweet...