Perception is the worst crime

There are always mirrors in her home. Nobody could walk into that beautiful woman's life without being perceived. You don't just get to know her - she, intimately, knows you, before you even realize it. Those unearthly green eyes seem to pop out of nowhere, peeking out beneath her wavy, blonde bangs.

"Do you want a drink?" She always asks as she opens the door for you. No greetings, no pleasantries, just the air of creature comforts, because of course you'll be staying a while. If you say no, she gets you multiple drinks to choose from as you sit and talk and she always knows your favorites, so really - it's best to say yes and pick your own. It was creepy enough how she already mixed the perfect two spoonfuls of sugar into your tea (not the large spoons either, she knew you meant the smallest of her spoons.)

In the secluded shade of her backyard, she will sip her lemonade, the glass held delicately between white manicured nails, and she does not look at you. Which is terrible, much worse than if she stared you down. She doesn't make a single sound when she drinks, never smudges that perfect fucking pink lip gloss either.

"So, work's been interesting," you'll finally say, cracked under the pressure of her all-knowing face, her charms, her wits, her- god, you wish you really knew.

"Oh? Did the last guy quit yet?" She'll ask with perfect innocence. You knew she knows the guy's name. She always does. It irritates you more that you know this about her than it annoys you she knows anything about you. You always tried to smooth away being known to anyone.

"Yeah, Lester finally decided to retire, poor guy," you'll say, leaning back, drink untouched. She'll hum her assent, her way of listening while processing every internal file she has on you, your job, your coworkers, hell, you wouldn't be surprised if she knew their families for several generations even.

"His wife's death really affected him, hm?" She'll finally say. Her green eyes have you pinned in their gaze and you'd squirm, but you almost like being burned in that gaze. Almost. You'll have to blink back tears eventually, your eyes held open, sparkling with the knowledge that for this glimmering second, all she wants to know is how you are and what is going on in your life. It hurts. It aches. It stings and you want to run away. You don't give away much. You never really did. Especially not to her.

"Yeah," you"ll breath out the word like it pains you, but really the pain is just you blinking again, your eyes dry. "I mean, who can blame the guy? Forty years of marriage and then... she's just gone. Just like that."

"Just like that," she'll repeat, the airy quality of her voice nauseating in this context. You'll smile, the edges of your mouth uncomfortable in the grin, a posture you rarely take because it makes you seem too friendly and agreeable. The worst things a person can be. She takes another sip of her lemonade, the tips of her fingers pink against the glass. You really shouldn't know what her skin looks like pressed against glass.

"Yeah," you'll laugh a little, uncomfortable as always tends to be at this point of your meetings. The ends of your hair bristle a bit, the sun setting and the air cooling. That's why your skin prickles. Not her eyes over the edge of that damned glass. You feel like an insect, carefully spread and pinned when you are here. Yet you cannot seem to resist her invitations. Why? What is wrong with you?

"Is everything still going well with Jenny?" She'll ask, setting the glass down, eyes carefully trained on the white tablecloth she only uses for your one-on-one meetings. You know, you've seen the baby blue one she uses for gatherings larger than this. Sometimes a dull orange one makes it out of the depths of some closet, but very, very rarely. You don't think to ask why this is, though she would have happily answered. You will not have thought on this question posed to you. You'll swallow nervously, taking a very careful sip of your drink. You sloppily get a drop on the white tablecloth when you sit the glass down. It stains. This nags at you more than you know what to do with.

"It's... Fine," you'll say with no confidence. She smirks, that ready, easy, all-knowing smirk you have memorized by now, the way the pink lip gloss never smudges under her bottom lip onto her chin like all the girls at work. Her nose doesn't wrinkle in that ugly spread out way either when she smiles.

"Fine? What a way to talk about your wife of six years," she'll say, her green eyes twinkling in that mischievous way you don't quite know how to handle. You'll swallow again, a dull thinking noise coming from your throat for a moment before you grab your drink and swallow many mouthfuls. You leave more drops on the tablecloth. This time, she does wrinkle her nose in that ugly way. Only for a split second, but it twists in your gut.

"Well, you know Jenny, always... Always finding something to work on," you'll say, again with no confidence, you have no faith in your words and neither does she. "I am never quite the perfect husband, but..." The words linger on your tongue too long and she laughs, a delightful, easy laugh that makes your heart ache. God, how you wish you could be known like her. How fucking wonderful would that be, to be known in such innocence like her.

"Oh stop! You can be a good husband," she'll say, patting the table gently in that "it's fine" way people do when they don't want to touch you, but they really do. You hate that you know this gesture so well. You really hate that you know it on her so well.

"Come off it," you'll say without bite, that pesky grin coming back to your lips without warning, your hand rubbing your jaw in a cocky way that would make you punch yourself if you were inside the house, with all her mirrors. "How would you know if I am or could be a good husband?" This time, her laugh is so ugly, so loud, so knowing, it wipes the grin clean off your face.

"Oh honey," she says in a darker voice, once she stops laughing, once she stops being so ugly, so awful. "I know you better than you know yourself. And I always have." This twists a knife in your sternum, a static pain that radiates through your blood into a hot rage. She doesn't know you. She can't, not with her scary green eyes or anything else, because nobody knows you. Nobody, and you've made damn well sure of it.

"No, you can't," you'll say, quietly, so quietly she leans in a touch to hear you. "I've made myself — I've made myself unknowable. Unlovable."

"Oh honey," she reaches across and pats your hand, it burns, oh how it burns to have her pity. "You really are afraid to be known? To be hurt by those around you?" You feel very small. You remember being young, a flash of memory, your mom telling you that you're too much of a brat for anyone to give a shit about, what were you, like, six years old? And aren't you like, thirty now?

"You don't understand," you'll start to reason your way out of this, out of her backyard, out of the drinks, how she must be special, how she uniquely figures people out, that you didn't let your guard down, you did fine, you were okay, you are okay currently.

"I'm not here to hurt you, honey," she runs one of those perfectly white nails over your wrist and you shiver.

"Aren't you? Aren't people — I don't know, bad?"

"No," she says with a smile that ruins your whole fucking life. She knows you. It is the worst thing that could ever happen to you. And even worse, you know her too.