SECOND CHANCE STALKER

There once was a boy, who, at the ripe old age of seven, fell in love with a girl.

           The girl’s long blond curls sprang from her ponytail as she ran around the playground. Her sea-glass blue eyes held a sparkle of mischief and she shared her little dimpled smile with everyone. Her laugh was loud, sweet, and happy. It made everyone around her happy too. Including the boy. But it wasn’t this that had caught his attention. You see, this boy was tormented by playmates as only playmates could torment. His body was lanky and his hair oily. The boy rarely spoke and was always the butt of a joke. He kept his head down and never smiled, except when she looked at him. As he sat alone on the sidelines watching and plotting, his eyes kept drifting to the one girl who had shown him any kindness. He couldn’t quite place the feeling yet, but his heart knew it had been drawn to the compassion and benevolence of the girl. Perhaps she was his only friend.

           One day the girl did not come back to the playground, and the boy’s heart broke piece by piece every day. When he had asked about her, he was teased.

           “Do you miss your girlfriend” They would say.

           “Now there is nobody that likes you” They spat.

For years, his thoughts wandered without permission, and every time, they landed on the laughter of a girl with wild blonde curls that ran through his dreams. As he grew, the boy paid no mind to the world around him, instead, he withdrew into his imagination and the whirlpool of information and knowledge available to him at the click and a tap of a few buttons.

Soon the boy became a man. His imagination gave way to the real world. He had gotten himself a job and a house, and by all standards of society, he was a well-to-do young gentleman. He was no longer the awkward and spindly teenager with limbs too long for his body, instead, he had filled his 5ft9 frame with brawn and muscle. His chestnut brown hair was just long enough to run a hand through and give him a mysterious sort of look, and his deep brown eyes never missed anything. He molded himself into the kind of man the world wanted. The sort of man that she would want. Because even after twenty years, it was still her sea-glass blue eyes that haunted him.

           It was the winter of the twentieth year since she had last seen him; when he sat in a coffee shop in New York City. The novel he was reading, his cell phone, and a half-eaten sandwich lay before him on the table. The coffee shop was bustling with life. Bodies were pressing closely together, all in a rush to get somewhere. A band of women giggled behind their hands while watching him. The thick smell of coffee clung to the air and the fresh croissants pierced the barrier to create a delicious aroma of comfort. The man closed his eyes and listened to the noise around him.

           “And then I told him that he needs to choose me or his mother…” one woman whined.

           “Just get the damn contract signed.” A man in a fancy suit spat at his phone before barking an order at the barista.

           Taxis were honking, and people were whistling. Somewhere music was blaring. There was a bell above the door that rang when it opened again. He heard the laughter of a woman, and his heart stopped for two beats.

Slowly he opened his eyes and immediately found the source of the musical joy. Her wild blond curls cascaded down her back and her black sweater was neatly tucked into a pair of denim jeans. She stood with a bloke wrapped around her and laughed up at his face. He wore a ridiculous suit.

Her hair is longer.

He watched as she and her friend placed their orders and then found a table. They sat closely together and the man felt anger and jealousy churn in his gut. And then she looked over at him. Her sea-glass blue eyes pierced his soul, and when she smiled her dimpled smile, the man almost died at the site. His breathing was suddenly rapid and his heart bounced around in his chest. The man felt dizzy and his knuckles turned white as he clenched the edge of the table. She did not know him, but he knew her.

           The woman and her gentleman friend left the coffee shop one hour later, and the man followed them. He watched as they walked to an apartment building, he watched as she kissed the other man and then he watched as she went inside. The man stood on the curb, covered in snow, watching and waiting.

           She didn’t recognize me. She didn’t recognize me. She didn’t recognize me. Again.

           It was nearly dark by the time the man moved. He had tucked his novel under his arm and hailed a taxi. He had decided that he would leave her be. They had shared a world once, but only he had been stuck in it.

           Darkness fell quickly and quietly and the man paced through his home. His mind was spinning and his heart was pounding.

           “Leave it,” he told himself as he ran a hand through his hair.

           “But she’s meant to me ours,” another voice whispered in his ear.

           “She didn’t recognize me!” His hand flew out and hit a glass off the counter, “Again…” he said it softly and slid down to the floor. He thought back to the fellow with his hands on her waist, and his lips kissing hers. He shouldn’t have felt this way, but jealousy was an evil mistress who presented herself at the most inconvenient of times.

           Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

           The man had decided to leave her be, but the other him had decided that they belonged together. And so tomorrow, he decided, he would find his lost girl once again.

           The sun glinted off the snow that had blanketed the city overnight, and as he walked to their regular coffee stop, he remembered the first time he had seen her blue eyes and dimpled smile stare back at him through a screen. He remembered how the power of information had brought her back to him after so many years. He was fifteen when he finally found her. He was seventeen when he found her address and he was eighteen when he moved to New York.

           He had spent all the night before planning and plotting. Just like he did when he was a boy. Back then his plots had been revenge; worms in lunch bags, his mother’s laxative in juice bottles, pins on chairs, and gum in hair. Now, he did not plot for revenge, he plotted for love.

           Once he had his coffee order, he sat at his usual table by the window. From here he had a clear view of the street and the front door. He waited. Waited. Waited. One hour turned to two and then to three, and still he waited. A fourth cup of coffee was ordered before the bell on the door rang. The man slowly turned around and watched as his girl stepped through the door with two other women. She had a small smile on her face and was quietly talking to her friends. Her demeanor had changed much from the day before. She seemed more recluse. He sat back in his chair, not once taking his eyes off her. She turned towards him and their gazes locked across the room. He wanted to see if she’d recognize him this time. She didn’t.

           The women made their way to a table nearby his and he listened intently.

           “You should go to the police,” the brunette hissed softly.

           “I agree,” the bottle blonde whispered, “he could be dangerous…”

           The man’s heart picked up speed. Had she finally recognized him after all these years?  

           “I broke things off, and I don’t think I’ll see him again…” she said while swallowing tears.

No, not him. Something in the man snapped, and he leaned back in his chair and tilted his head just slightly to the side.

           “Besides, that was the first time he ever got… handsy… like that.” The man took a deep breath and opened his phone. ROSEY ADLER. He pulled up the file he'd created. The FBI security clearance page popped up, and he entered his password. The woman’s information rolled out on his screen, information he had seen countless times in the five years that he had worked at the bureau.

           Address: 275 East End 72^nd

                         Apt. 4B

                         New York, NY.

           Occupation: Pre-school Teacher at New York Education Center.

           Spouse: Non-Applicable (in relationship with ROBERT CLIFFORD)

Robert Clifford. The man found his file with the tap-tap of a finger and hurriedly wrote down his address. He leaned back once more, and the sound of sniffling caused a fiery river to course through his veins.

           “I’ll be ok,” she said, “I think I’m just in shock. I just… I don’t think he wanted to hurt me…” Her voice trailed off as the man stood from his table, “he was just drunk…” she said as he walked out the door.

           Robert Clifford wore an expensive, grey three-piece suit with a blue tie neatly tucked in. His black shoes shone, freshly polished, and a gold Rolex gleamed on his wrist. His black hair was slicked back with far too much hair product, and a pine-scented perfume came off him in wafts as he stepped into the elevator. The man stood in the far-right corner of the elevator, watching. As it climbed the floors of the luxury apartment building, his eyes never strayed from the man’s back and his mind never stopped thinking.

           “Nah, that bitch wasn’t worth the trouble,” he said into the phone and laughed nastily. The man’s hands fisted at his sides. He had been intending to rattle the scumbag a little bit, but the blood in his veins heated at the disrespectful note in his voice. The elevator doors dinged and opened. Robert stepped out. His laughter rang down the hall, the sound of it echoing in the empty hall. Before the elevator doors closed again, he thrust a large hand in between the doors to stop them; and he got out just in time to see Robert entering an apartment down the hall. He pulled his cap low over his eyes and waited for ten counts.

           Five… he stepped closer.

           Seven… he stopped in front of the door.

           Nine… he took a breath.

           Ten… he knocked.

           The door opened. Robert had removed his tie and undone the top button on his suit. He held a small crystal glass of amber-brown liquid.

           “Yes?” His voice was raspy and his face contorted. His jaw ticked in irritation, and the man smiled wickedly at him.

           “FBI,” He pulled out his badge, and flicked it open in Robert’s face, “Just asking a few questions…” he said nonchalantly. “May I?” He pointed to the open door and stepped past the scumbag.

           “Whatever she said,” Robert started stammering, “she is lying… No need to involve the feds…” A line of sweat formed on Robert’s forehead.

           The man’s jaw ticked and his fists clenched. He cocked his head to the side and slowly scanned the room. It was well furnished, with leather couches and wooden tables. It smelt of cigar smoke and several cigar butts were scattered around in glass trays. Empty whiskey glasses were placed on every empty surface, and in the corner, a dark green poker table stood with cards still splayed everywhere. The man took a stroll around. On the leather couch, he found red underwear draped over the armrest and his anger rose to the surface again, wondering who it belonged to.  

           “I’m only going to ask you this once, Mr. Clifford,” He asked, his voice low and dangerous. “Did. You. Touch. Her?”

           Robert laughed nervously, “I just… I didn’t hurt her… I just lost my temper a little.” he gulped his drink down in one swallow, “I swear I didn’t hurt her!” his hands shook as he refilled his glass. “I was just frustrated… she is such a prude you know…” He laughed at that, expecting the man to agree.  

The man looked at him, unblinking and quiet. Before Robert could sputter another excuse, the man’s fist flew across the space between them and crunched against Robert’s face. His head snapped back and blood gushed from his nose. He stumbled back a few steps and tripped over a chair. Before he could hit the ground he was hauled up by his neck and shoved into a kitchen chair. Another blow.

Another.

Another.

Blood dripped from Robert’s nose, a gash on his cheek and a split lip. His eyes already swelling. The man’s knuckles were raw and blood stained them as he tied Robert to his chair. He stepped back and found the whiskey decanter. The pills in his pocket had been ground into a fine powder. He emptied the packet into a glass and filled it with whiskey. Robert’s head hung back over the chair, with his mouth gaping open. The man gripped the lout’s chin and forced the liquid down his throat.

           “Cyanide. It’ll be over soon” he gave Robert a pat on the cheek, before moving through the house. He turned over furniture and ripped curtains and bedding. He found files in the office and scattered papers. There was no safe and nothing else of value. The man took Robert’s Rolex from his arm and took the cash from his wallet.

           Robert Clifford spasmed in his chair, veins bulging in his red face.

And then Robert Clifford was dead.  

Upon leaving the house, he removed the rubber gloves from his hands, slipped on the Rolex, and gave the cash to a homeless man under a box. He took the long way home, passing by her apartment. He stood under the street light and watched as she moved around within her home. When her lights went out, he finally went home and slept peacefully knowing she would never be hurt again.

           The sun shone through the man’s window, and the sound of birds woke him. He hadn’t slept that deeply in all his life. He dressed and left for the coffee shop. Once again, he sat and waited. Waited and waited and waited, and just before the lunch rush she came in. Rosey. He hadn’t said her name out loud in so many years, he wasn’t sure what it would feel like on his lips. He watched her from behind his novel. Her hair had been braided and she wore an oversized white sweater. He couldn’t see the bruises on her arms, but he knew they’d be there. The thought of them, made him think that he killed Robert too kindly.

           Rosey turned around, and her gaze caught on him. She cocked her head slightly and bit her bottom lip. The man’s eyes dropped to them. She stepped up to his table,

           “Excuse me,” she said softly, “Have we… met before?” her dimpled smile warmed something in his chest, and he stood.

           “If we had, I would certainly not have forgotten you,” his voice was deep and charming, and he smiled at her. He held out his hand,

           “I’m Tom. Tom Hunter,” He watched her face for a sign of recognition. There was a single moment of confusion, but no recognition.

           “You seem familiar, Tom Hunter,” she said as she held his hand, “I’m Rosey Adler.” She smiled at him, and he repeated her name. Her name felt like summer and magic on his lips.   

           Every day after their first encounter, they met at the coffee shop. Weeks passed. Every day they would sit together and talk, read, or just be. It wasn’t until late afternoon on a Tuesday when Rosey said,

           “Tom,” he looked up from his novel, “When are you going to ask me out?” She smiled shyly.

           “Rosey,” Tom smirked at her, “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

           Rosey smiled as she nodded. Tom kissed her hand, and her gaze dropped to the golden Rolex he wore.