Addendum Issue 104

eZine lover (@eZine)

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 · 5 years ago

  

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   #104 : Monday 15th September 2003 : http://addendumtextfiles.org 
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	 Lines: A Stalker’s Love Story, By BMC 
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                                 1 

“I feel a little embarrassed about this, but I’d like to meet you.” 
“Why?  You don’t know me.” 
“Yeah, but I’d like to get to know you.  I think you’re cool.” 
“Then why are you embarrassed about it?  What’s wrong with you?” 
“Nothing.  Well, nothing.  I just think you’re perfect, and it makes 
me nervous to talk to you.” 
“You think I’m perfect?  And there’s nothing wrong with you?  I think 
you need a dose of reality.” 
“You mean you’re not perfect?” 
“I mean you’re not going to meet me.  And yeah, I’m not perfect 
either.” 

 
                                 2 

I’ve been living in exile from Holly’s place for a while now, sleeping 
on plastic sheets in a hostel room with three guys I don’t like.  I 
keep all of my possessions in a locked plywood closet and I haven’t 
had a haircut in five months. 

Now that I’m by myself, poor, with no friends and nothing to do, I’ve 
pared my life down to two goals.  First, I need to finish the school 
year.  That should be easy, since I don’t have anything to do but read 
textbooks.  Second, and this is the important one, I need a girl to 
share things with.  One specific girl, actually. 

Back when I was dating Holly I spent most of my time wishing we 
weren’t together, and all that time I never realized how lonely it 
would be to spend all of my time alone.  It’s weird, but life doesn’t 
even seem to have a point without anyone else.  I end up spending my 
nights going over and over in my head all of the different ways one 
person could reject me. 

 
                                 3 

“Are you thirsty?” 
“What are you talking about?” 
“Umm, I was just wondering if you wanted to go out for a cup of coffee 
or something.” 
“No, I don’t really like coffee.” 
“Oh.  Well neither do I.  Do you want to maybe go for some tea 
instead?” 
“Sure.” 
“What?  No way, I totally thought you were going to say no.” 
“Really?  Why?” 
“Because you said no to coffee.  Coffee is a word most people use to 
describe a drink of any kind.” 
“Yeah, but if you meant a drink of any kind, why wouldn’t you just say 
that?  Or call it a drink instead of a coffee?” 
“I don’t know.  Coffee just makes sense, doesn’t it?  I always thought 
you’d have to be pretty stupid not to get it that’s all.” 
“What?  Now you’re saying that I’m stupid?” 
“No no.  I’m just saying that your mind is closed to a lot of 
possibilities.” 
“Oh yeah?  Well fuck you, jerk!  Go have coffee by yourself then!” 
“No, no.  I wasn’t serious.  I was just joking.  Sorry.” 
“Listen, asshole.  You blew it, ok?  Now go out for coffee with your 
open-minded little friends, ok?” 
“I don’t have any friends.” 
“Yeah, I wonder why!” 

 
                                 4 

Me and Holly dated in high school and were voted most likely to get 
married.  So when we applied to universities, it seemed natural that 
we’d try to move to the same city together.  Holly had ideas of her 
own.  Like when we were on the plane, on our way here, she pulled out 
a knife to core her apple.  Not one of those plastic airplane knives 
either, but a real-life stainless steel jackknife.  When I spotted it 
out of the corner of my eye I started to panic.  “What the hell are 
you doing with that!?” I said.  “That’s totally illegal!  They’re 
going to think you’re hijacking the plane!”  She didn’t show the least 
bit of concern.  “Ah, I put it in the metal tray at the security gate. 
They never said anything about it, so who cares?”  “They must have 
made a mistake!” I said.  “Put it away!  You’re freaking me out!”  She 
said, “Give it a rest, I’m almost done.”  She took her time cutting 
the rest of the apple, knowing it was driving me crazy.  Then, before 
she folded the blade in, she made a quick lunging motion toward me.  I 
took a deep breath and closed my eyes.  When I opened them again, 
she’d put the knife away and was laughing to herself. 

 
                                 5 

“You remind me of a girl I used to date.” 
“I’m not sure what you mean.” 
“I used to date this girl, and she was beautiful like you.  So 
beautiful that I never let her out of my sight.” 
“So I’m like this girl, you say?” 
“Well you’re not exactly like her.  But you kind of represent her. 
You might as well be her.  I’m in love with you.” 
“You don’t even know me.” 
“I know enough about you to be in love with you.  And you’re in love 
with me too.” 
“You’re insane.” 
“Mad about you, maybe!” 
“Yeah.  Maybe not!” 

 
                                 6 

Over the school year, the sidewalk from Holly’s apartment to the 
university became a tunnel.  The snowbanks were seven feet on both 
sides, and all I could see was snow, overcast sky, and the occasional 
tree that overhung the path.  I walked in a senseless state to school 
and back the same way everyday.  In the tunnel, I forgot that other 
people existed. 

Winter wasn’t going anywhere, I realized, as I sat in class and 
watched the snow melt off my boots in a grey puddle at my feet.  My 
sociology professor pressed a button on his stereo and stood at 
attention while the International played through the speakers. 

“Stand up, all victims of oppression, for the tyrants fear your might. 
Don’t cling so hard to your possessions, for you have nothing if you 
have no rights.” 

He was a kook, I admit, but he was also the most entertaining 
professor I’d ever had.  The class was exciting – Conflict Theory: the 
study of the way that groups and individuals have differing ideals and 
goals that conflict with one another.  I’d half hoped that this class 
would allow me to discover a way to purge the world of conflict once 
and for all, but failing that, I’d have been happy to straighten out 
the conflict in my own life. 

As much as this class was already the best thing in my life, one thing 
made it better.  A pretty girl with orange hair. 

 
                                 7 

“That’s a very pretty sweater you’ve got on.” 
“Yeah, I saw you staring at my chest, you fucking pervert.” 
“Erh.  Heh.  Sorry.” 
“Fuck you!” 

 
                                 8 

This orange-haired girl, this beautiful girl who looks like she’s made 
of paper.  Her skin so pale, her body straight and textured like the 
fibers of a page.  She wore a Throwing Muses shirt, and I thought 
right away that this could be the kind of girl to hitchhike to Boston 
to see them live.  Alternatively, she could have bought the shirt in 
the local record store, but I had a feeling that local stores were 
somehow too good for her.  There was an aura to her, something 
tranquil and mystifying. 

She stood up in class one day when we were talking about C. Wright 
Mills, who believed that if someone isn’t experiencing conflict on the 
macro level, they will experience conflict on the micro level instead. 
The girl told the professor and all of the students about a 
philosopher named Lao Tzu who said that there was a middle path, a way 
of living that was harmonious and bypassed conflict and struggle. 
Right there I was converted to a new way of life.  Not to following 
the tenets of Taoism, but following the girl wherever she went. 

 
                                 9 

“Hi I’m a loser I have a crush on you can you kill me now?” 
“You want me to kill you?” 
“Yes.  No.  I want to touch you.  You’re so beautiful.” 
“Why do you want to touch me?” 
“I want to see if something so beautiful can be real.” 
“You’re scaring me.” 
“This isn’t working, is it?” 
“Are you trying to scare me?” 
“No.” 
“Well then it isn’t working.” 
“I’m sorry.  Please don’t tell anyone.” 

 
                                 10 

Holly was the kind of girl who always carried a knife in her back 
pocket, and she was always using it. This was a trait I’d admired 
until the day she slashed me to ribbons.  I remember her going for the 
knife and me ending up in the hospital, but maybe that wasn’t exactly 
it.  Looking at my skin, I don’t see any scars. 

There were words involved.  She said I was lazy and I bled.  She said 
I was a slob and I bled.  She said I never had enough ambition, and by 
the time she was finished, I was torn up, caked with the ruddy stuff 
from shirt to socks.  In a final motion, she cut the ties that bound 
our relationship and sent me packing. 

 
                                 11 

“Do you really eat that junk?” 
“Pardon me?” 
“That food.  It’s terrible for you.  Potato chips?  Give me a break. 
Bits of potato deep-fried in grease.  There’s not much worse you can 
get, except maybe for congealed grease on a stick.  Do you eat that 
too?” 
“Who are you?  Why are you talking to me like this?” 
“Listen.  How about after class we go out and I’ll buy you some real 
food.” 
“What?  No!” 
“Why not?” 
“I have another class after this.” 
“Oh, that’s it?  Well then just skip it.  I’ll buy you anything you 
like.  A Greek salad, maybe.  Feta cheese, black olives.” 
“No, I don’t want a salad.” 
“Well then do you want to eat something else?” 
“No.” 
“Well then do you maybe want to go for lunch some other time?” 
“No.” 
“Well do you want to go out for some other meal maybe?” 
“No, okay?” 
“Okay.” 

 
                                 12 

I am in the dark, thinking of the girl.  As I lie in bed I trace the 
contours of her face, going over the lines again and again.  I fix her 
in my memory; my consciousness becomes a patchwork of sociology 
lectures and orange hair. 

Leonardo da Vinci spent time in bed each night memorizing his drawings 
and diagrams.  I think I am becoming da Vinci.  I trace her name 
across my stomach with my fingernail.  I trace hundreds of names, over 
and over, knowing that one will be hers.  I make lists of all the 
things I’ve heard her say and categorize them all.  Number six is that 
she feels sorry for the colour orange. 

 
                                 13 

“Can I tell you something about Leonardo da Vinci?” 
“What are you talking about?” 
“I’m Leonardo da Vinci.” 
“You’re Leonardo da Vinci?” 
“I mean, because I spend all night lying awake thinking of you.” 
“Is there something wrong with you?” 
“I didn’t mean to, all I meant was—” 
“Listen, you’d better leave me alone.” 
“I’m sorry.” 

 
                                 14 

I’m with her in my dream.  My fingers move through her orange hair.  I 
am with her.  I am the biggest part of her story.  Our bodies touch, 
her exhale is my inhale.  My hands grasp her shoulders, her long 
fingers wrap around my arms. 

I wake up screaming I wish I were dead.   My bunkmates ask me if I’m 
ok.  I say “Yes!” 

There is no need to pretend any longer.  We are destined to be 
together.  In the spring we will go for long walks by the river, 
talking for hours, touching each other, having picnics, and gazing 
into each other’s eyes.  In the summer we will stretch out under the 
warm sun, baking in the city streets, bare feet hot on fresh blacktop. 
In winter, we will survive together, confined in lovers’ microcosm. 
No matter how insignificant the act, our relationship will give 
everything meaning. 

She is the element.  Love is true. 

 
                                 15 

At the end of class I approach her.  Not a daydream this time, but the 
real thing.  I have to say something real, substantial, and yet 
restrained.  I wipe the sweat off my cold fists, take a deep breath, 
and corner her on the way out of the classroom door.  We make eye 
contact, her eyes beautiful, startled.  It takes me a moment to work 
up the nerve to break the stare with words, any words now. 

“Excuse me.  I really liked what you said about Lao Tzu and I’d really 
like to talk to you about it some more.” 
“Taoism?  Well not now, but maybe some other time, ok?” 
“Sure.  Do you have another class right now?” 
“Yeah, I have a philosophy class.” 
“Oh yeah, that’s right.” 
“That’s right?  What do you mean?” 
“Nothing.  This is so weird.” 
“Weird?  How?” 
“Well I don’t want to freak you out, but I spend all night lying awake 
thinking of you.” 
“I don’t believe you.” 
“It’s true.  Every night.” 
“I really have to go.” 
“Philosophy class.  Right. How about sometime next week?” 
“Maybe.  I really have to go now.” 
“Bye.” 

 
                                 16 

As long as you’ve got yourself you’ve got something.  That’s what I’m 
trying to tell myself, anyway.  Later that night I recreate the 
scenario over and over again, taking my failure, reliving it as 
success, inventing possibilities. 

“It took a lot of nerve to approach you, so can I at least ask you 
your name?” 
“Ask away.” 
“What’s your name?” 
“Carol.” 
“My name's Smith.  Listen Carol, do you want to go out on a date with 
me?” 
“I’ve got a boyfriend, sorry.” 
“That’s interesting.  I was thinking maybe I could be your boyfriend 
instead.  Then your boyfriend wouldn’t mind, because your boyfriend 
would be me.” 
“That’s funny.  Are you serious?” 
“Let’s just put it this way.  Yes.” 
“Ha!  Ok.  I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’m going to give you 
my phone number.  But no promises, ok?” 
“Can you promise me that you’re giving me your real number?” 
“Yeah.  One promise then.” 
“I can live with that.  Thanks.  I’ll talk to you soon.” 
“I’m looking forward to it.” 
“Ok— wait!  Would you like to fall in love with me right now?” 
“Yes, I would.  I was wondering when you’d ask!” 
“You’re so beautiful.  So, so beautiful.” 
“Make love to me.” 
“Yes, yes.” 
“Pull my panties down just like that. Yes!” 
“Just like that.” 
“Brush your hands against my knees.” 
“Your knees are parting at my touch.” 
“Hold me in your arms.” 
“I can feel you.” 
“Oh, you’re in me, you’re in me!” 
“I’m in you.  Me.  You.” 
“I love you!  I love you!” 
“I love you!  I love you!” 
“I love you.” 
“I love you too.” 

 

 
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