The Worst Stalker in the World
I don't think she rides the bus. I think I remember that she doesn't.
She woke me up this morning. Called my cell phone. 10:36, by the time on the little black cable box above B's television. I was having that dream again, the one where I'm holding a kitten small enough to be frightened by a cockroach, small enough to sit politely and lick it's paws in the palm of my hand and roll around like a ball of play-doh, not that that's part of the dream. Small white kitten with blue eyes, though like a baby I think the color will change when it grows. It's the dream where I spy this tiny white kitten in a small grey cell, behind a full-length gold rimmed mirror like one you might find in a Disney film, and I pick it up and realize that I've been keeping it starved for weeks and if it doesn't drink any water it's going to die, so I put it in the sink to drink some water only to find that, surprise there's no water in the sink. Now today I was at the point where I'm about to turn the faucet on, I think, when she woke me up.
But in the interest of getting this off my chest, let me finish the dream. I turn the faucet on and suddenly, horrifyingly too late it dawns on me that the kitten is just the right size to fit down the drainhole. The kitten, looking like it's only care in the world is wondering whether or not it's going to pee in my hand when I pick it back up, floats atop the water for a millisecond before disappearing down the drainhole. I reach desperately down to see if I can get her. At first I can't see her, but then I catch a glimpse of her eyes looking back up at me, the kind of glimpse you get in a darkened room or an alleyway when a cat's eyes interact with a streetlamp or a television screen and you can only see a yellow glow, like in Gargoyles, not like they have jaundice eyes. (that's a lot of links, i should quit now while i'm ahead...yeah...HUZZAH!)
I check underneath at the bare piping, but there's just no way. Now I'm stuck with the decision of letting it rot down there but letting it live or turning the water on full blast and hoping it dies quickly or turning the faucet on just a little and slowly torturing it. It's around this time that I wake up on my own.
Why can't I have a recurring dream about that skanky Canadian woman who tried to seduce me on AMTRAK?
So I wake up to hear the cell phone ringing, and stumble out of the bed, thinking that the Air Force guy is calling to talk to me again. I check the pockets of two pairs of my pants which are crumpled in a heap on the floor only to come up with nothing. I curse loudly and throw the pants back down. By the time I take the trench coat off the couch cushions and check pockets the ringing has stopped. I flip open the phone and there you have.
1 MISSED CALL
|RESTRICTED|
Only one person calls me these days with a restricted number. It's her, my stalker.
I jump around the fold out bed, jam the portable's adapter into the outlet and boot it up, hoping she'll be on AIM but knowing that she won't. While I wait I crawl into bed next to the portable pc and I hold the phone much like I held the kitten and I chant with more desperation than I should care to admit, "call call call, c'mon baby, call back, call back, please call back, c'mon, call call call CALL": by the time windows logs on I'm caressing a scratch on the phone as if it will provoke a positive response. But the phone doesn't ring, and she's not on AIM.
I fall back onto my very comfy pillow lay out and imagine what she was doing when she called.
Was she in her room, eyes fixed on the door, waiting to see if her parents were going to walk by, chanting 'pick up, pick up, pick UP!' was she at school, using her cell phone, freckled skin wrinkled with a smile? was she staring out her window at snow, knowing I wouldn't pick up, but calling me anyway?
Much like the Marine recruiter who called yesterday morning and woke me up, my stalker today has acted as more of a service to me, a wake-up call to start the day.
I spend the next number of hours in bed, watching episodes of 'The L Word' until sometime in the afternoon, when I realize that not only isn't she going to call, but that I have things I'd probably better do.
As I shower, I ask myself what kind of a stalker only calls once? I demand to know. Stalker. What's up? Call once to wake up. Call again and be frantic and mean and give a perfunctory interrogation as to what I was doing to make you call twice before promising to swallow me whole in the gaping abyss of your womanly love.
C'mon. Please?
....huzzah?
She woke me up this morning. Called my cell phone. 10:36, by the time on the little black cable box above B's television. I was having that dream again, the one where I'm holding a kitten small enough to be frightened by a cockroach, small enough to sit politely and lick it's paws in the palm of my hand and roll around like a ball of play-doh, not that that's part of the dream. Small white kitten with blue eyes, though like a baby I think the color will change when it grows. It's the dream where I spy this tiny white kitten in a small grey cell, behind a full-length gold rimmed mirror like one you might find in a Disney film, and I pick it up and realize that I've been keeping it starved for weeks and if it doesn't drink any water it's going to die, so I put it in the sink to drink some water only to find that, surprise there's no water in the sink. Now today I was at the point where I'm about to turn the faucet on, I think, when she woke me up.
But in the interest of getting this off my chest, let me finish the dream. I turn the faucet on and suddenly, horrifyingly too late it dawns on me that the kitten is just the right size to fit down the drainhole. The kitten, looking like it's only care in the world is wondering whether or not it's going to pee in my hand when I pick it back up, floats atop the water for a millisecond before disappearing down the drainhole. I reach desperately down to see if I can get her. At first I can't see her, but then I catch a glimpse of her eyes looking back up at me, the kind of glimpse you get in a darkened room or an alleyway when a cat's eyes interact with a streetlamp or a television screen and you can only see a yellow glow, like in Gargoyles, not like they have jaundice eyes. (that's a lot of links, i should quit now while i'm ahead...yeah...HUZZAH!)
I check underneath at the bare piping, but there's just no way. Now I'm stuck with the decision of letting it rot down there but letting it live or turning the water on full blast and hoping it dies quickly or turning the faucet on just a little and slowly torturing it. It's around this time that I wake up on my own.
Why can't I have a recurring dream about that skanky Canadian woman who tried to seduce me on AMTRAK?
So I wake up to hear the cell phone ringing, and stumble out of the bed, thinking that the Air Force guy is calling to talk to me again. I check the pockets of two pairs of my pants which are crumpled in a heap on the floor only to come up with nothing. I curse loudly and throw the pants back down. By the time I take the trench coat off the couch cushions and check pockets the ringing has stopped. I flip open the phone and there you have.
1 MISSED CALL
|RESTRICTED|
Only one person calls me these days with a restricted number. It's her, my stalker.
I jump around the fold out bed, jam the portable's adapter into the outlet and boot it up, hoping she'll be on AIM but knowing that she won't. While I wait I crawl into bed next to the portable pc and I hold the phone much like I held the kitten and I chant with more desperation than I should care to admit, "call call call, c'mon baby, call back, call back, please call back, c'mon, call call call CALL": by the time windows logs on I'm caressing a scratch on the phone as if it will provoke a positive response. But the phone doesn't ring, and she's not on AIM.
I fall back onto my very comfy pillow lay out and imagine what she was doing when she called.
Was she in her room, eyes fixed on the door, waiting to see if her parents were going to walk by, chanting 'pick up, pick up, pick UP!' was she at school, using her cell phone, freckled skin wrinkled with a smile? was she staring out her window at snow, knowing I wouldn't pick up, but calling me anyway?
Much like the Marine recruiter who called yesterday morning and woke me up, my stalker today has acted as more of a service to me, a wake-up call to start the day.
I spend the next number of hours in bed, watching episodes of 'The L Word' until sometime in the afternoon, when I realize that not only isn't she going to call, but that I have things I'd probably better do.
As I shower, I ask myself what kind of a stalker only calls once? I demand to know. Stalker. What's up? Call once to wake up. Call again and be frantic and mean and give a perfunctory interrogation as to what I was doing to make you call twice before promising to swallow me whole in the gaping abyss of your womanly love.
C'mon. Please?
....huzzah?
