The Taste of Betrayal

Five days. I’ve made it five days with a stalker snapping at my heels. He keeps to the shadows, finding comfort in the obsidian curtains created by the absence of light. Although my stalker is very real and very tangible, sometimes so close I can smell him, taste him even, there is an absence in his presence. A thick emptiness where joy and feeling and life all become grey.

He’s been around for a while, this stalker of mine. In fact, I think he may have even preyed on my mother, sucking the life from her when she couldn’t outrun him anymore. Like a parasite, he leeched on everything, drinking and taking and consuming what wasn’t his until my mother lay as grey and lifeless as the absence he carried. He took everything from her…and me.

So, I left.

I landed a job as a legal assistant in Austin. It’s not the most prestigious job or even the most glamorous job. But to my podunk town of Rankin, where secondhand RVs “just traveling through” outnumber people two to one, I am practically a wolf of Wall Street. I live the big city life, ride the big city bus, pay the big city rent. And, of course, that all came with big city stress thrown in for free.

Unfortunately for me, it appears, it also comes with a big city stalker.

He is close this morning, I can sense him. The greyness is there, lingering just at the edge of my vision as I hustle down the five flights of stairs from the two-bedroom apartment I share with three other people. But when I flick my eyes to the shadows hanging between the stairwells, he manages to slink away, somehow always evading the most of my green eyes.

I make it to the bus just in the nick of time, rushing inside in a flurry of wind and hurry as the bus doors shut with a light but loving nip at my calves.

“I missed you,” the nip says, gently chastising me for disappearing the last few days.

At least I made it today, I think back sheepishly.

I tuck a curl of dollar store, Loreal “Cherry Crush” hair behind my ear. My wild locks always love to fight restrain for they contain the stallion spirit of my ancestors. I just never liked the dull red I inherited from them as well, nearly the ashy orange of an old carrot. I prefer to paint it a bright, fiery red to match the color of my blazing cheeks.

Grateful that I just avoided the graze of my stalker, I gingerly creep through the crowd and melt into the mass of familiar strangers. Funny how no matter when I ride the bus, there are always the usual cast of characters. The laborer just off nightshift struggling to keep his eyes open against the comforting jostle of the bus. The elderly woman with far too many plastic bags of nothing which are only outnumbered by the tales of hardship in her foggy eyes. And, because this is Austin, the ordinary walking quirk with beads in his beard and a song in his throat. Occasionally, there is a street dweller. No, not one of those people who struggle with homelessness. The purposeful street dweller who cherishes a life unencumbered except for the nicknacks and the jackets and the brown-bagged bottles. These are the ones who always make me the most uncomfortable. Not because I judge them, but because of the smell. They remind me of my mother.

Just as I find my footing on the sway of the bus, my stop arrives. Pushing back that rogue curl, I slither through the crowd once more with quiet “sorry’s” and “excuse me’s” as my usher down the aisle.

I hop out hastily and flit into a ladylike stride somewhere between a skip and a jog towards Thatcher & Dale Law Offices. Slowing my dainty rush down to a calm shuffle, I slide through the dark wooden doors, attempting to slouch in the hopes that…

“Ah, only ten minutes late today, Claire?” Agnes caws from the receptionist desk. I don’t look but I know she is watching me over her thick rectangular spectacles, her waddle flapping furiously as she shakes her head with disapproval.

I try to dip my head and avert my eyes. Perhaps if I don’t make direct contact…

“I suppose at least you showed up, right?”

I offer a meek laugh and dash forward through the small lobby, my tattered ballerina flats making a swish swish swish against the outdated checkered tile.

I enter the main suite to the lazy bustle of a law office hurting for business. The air smells of warmly printed paper and stale coffee and Linda back from her morning smoke break. I duck through the cubicles quickly and swing myself into the corner cube I share with Ann.

“Hi, Ann,” I greet as I shove my fraying bag beneath an awfully beige desk.

“Oh my gosh,” Ann starts in a whisper, swiveling in her squeaky black chair, “I’m so glad you’re back!” She drops her voice to just above a breath and leans in. “I had to tell Dale you had a three-day stomach bug! He wasn’t going to buy another day.”

“Thanks,” I reply quietly, slamming myself down into my chair and spinning towards her. “What did I miss?”

With a last look stuck somewhere between concern and annoyance, Ann pulls a stack of papers from her desk. She spends the next ten minutes explaining the case we are gathering information for. It’s regarding Henry vs Travis County in which a man is attempting to sue the county for injuring his ankle in a patch of improperly blocked off, unmarked wet cement.

I snap my head to the side as Ann drones on, convinced I caught a flash of grey in my periphery. As I peer head on, the only grey I can make out is in the combover of Dale’s terribly thinning hair attempting to impersonate a coif. I sniff hard to rid myself of that familiar shiver. The one that feels like spiders crawling down my neck. The one that yells my stalker is lurking nearby.

Rubbing my eyes, I work to focus on the documents Ann is chronicling. She is uniquely proficient. Everything on her desk is in its exact position, every paper labeled, every paragraph highlighted, every highlight a different color that corresponds with a distinct code created in her neat little head. Some days I think I want to be more like her. Other days I’m glad I’m not.

Ann thoroughly explains the case and sets me loose with a handful of tasks that struggle to capture my passion and, for that matter, my attention. I work half-heartedly surrounded by the sounds of keys clacking and gum smacking and Linda stomping through the door for her second mid-morning smoke break.

Lunch sneaks around and while sweet Ann decides on a working meal at her desk, I grab my packaged sandwich and small bag of chips and slip outside, avoiding both Dale and Thatcher. I walk a block away, because heaven forbid I have to talk to anyone from work while I’m on my break, and find an empty bench on the sidewalk. The heat and the rain have been flirting again and the air is thick with a muggy humidity. Looking up and shielding my eyes from the worst rays, I can see the sun fighting for life in the sky, valiantly battling swathes of grey clouds that refuse to retreat. Soon, though, we’ll be traipsing into the blistering season. I’m not sure which I hate more, the humidity or the oven-like summer temperatures. None go well with my delicate, freckled skin.

Sitting down and opening my sandwich, I’m overwhelmed by that sensation again as the shudder down in my back starts with a sudden twitch in my neck. I whirl around on the bench, looking over my shoulder into the deep alleyway. Long shadows stretch from the buildings and creep into the far corners of the alley behind random debris and stray pigeons looking for an easy meal. I swear he’s there. His presence is like a fingernail down my neck, a hand around my throat. Sometimes, I just want to say “fuck it” and give in, allowing him to catch me up in his grey. But it’s been five days. I’ve avoided him this long; I can’t just quit now.

With my stalker’s presence billowing from the shadows, casting my bench in an uneasy hue, I eat my lunch in a hurried strut back to the office. Back to the chagrin of Agnes and the pencil scratches of Ann and the smell of Linda.

The afternoon creeps by as I struggle to force my attention on the lackluster case. Time practically screeches to a loud, disturbing halt around 2:45 PM. Even as I stare at the analog clock on the wall, the black hands are steadfast, as if suspended in hardened amber. Someone turns the heat on in the office and the place begins to swelter.

“I’m taking a break,” I say to Ann even as I’m already one foot out of our cubicle.

As I walk through the office, passing by a lonely window with blinds pulled down like the coarse eyelashes of a closed eye, I see that flash of grey again. Gasping, I rush to the glass and stab my fingers through the blinds, pulling two apart to peer outside. Right when I think I’ve caught him, he scurries around a corner and is gone before I can snag him with my sight.

“Everything ok?” Linda asks as she pulls out her pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter on the way to her afternoon smoke break.

“Yeah,” I say, pulling away from the window and straightening the crushed blind. “I’m fine. Just thought I saw something.”

“You sure? You just look –,”

“Sorry,” I interrupt as I begin to rush away, “have to run to the bathroom.”

I dart before I get swept up into a conversation. Linda does like to talk, and the smell becomes overpowering after a while. I will never understand how someone can get addicted to a substance so fetid. I fly into the bathroom, thankfully a singleton, and lock the door.

I turn the water on tepid and dip my face into the sink to splash the cooling liquid on my cheeks and neck. Sweat has begun to run down my back and shimmy down my spine, creating an irritating tickle. When I stand, my heart stumbles in my chest, catching my breath up in its fall. My stalker. I snap around and look over my shoulder, gripping the sink with two shaky hands. Is this it? Am I finally caught? But no one is there. The bathroom is empty save for the half-empty toilet paper roll and the dozens of posters vowing to take all reports of sexual harassment seriously.

Slowly, my heart chugs back to life and my breath steadies into its normal rhythm. I turn back to the mirror and gaze at my own emerald eyes, promising myself that we, my reflection and I, can do this. We can avoid him. And we will be ok. With one last look at my red, blotchy cheeks, I strengthen my resolve, and exit the bathroom.

I ignore the shiver in my back when I pass the shadowy janitor’s closet, left ajar. I avoid rushing to the window when I catch another glimmer of grey. I’m not going to let him get to me. I’m not going to spend my life looking over my shoulder.

I twirl back into the cubicle and Ann does a double take.

“You ok, Claire?” she asks, pencil tucked behind her ear, highlighter between her fingers.

“Yes,” I say with a smile as I sit primly in my chair, “why?”

“You just look, sweaty…” Ann says, her head canting in a cute way that makes her wavy brown hair bob.

“Oh yeah,” I chuckle, “it’s hot in here. I think someone turned the heater on.”

“Huh.” Ann huffs with dismissal and turns back to her work.

The late afternoon crawls as I get sweatier and jumpier. It feels impossible to stop seeing grey, like my entire world is seeping color and soon I’ll be left in the dull. Just when those beautiful, torturous, meandering hands slide to 4:49, I’m collecting my bag and preparing to scamper away, to find reprieve from this suffocating heat.

“See you tomorrow?” Ann asks, glancing over her shoulder, still elbows deep in highlighter.

“Yeah,” I answer with a light nod as I fight a wave of nausea brought on by the heat and the sweat and the grey.

Back the way I came, I’m rushing across the office cubicles, crossing rancid taste of Linda, and am home free when my toes cross onto the checkered tile of the lobby. Agnes stares me down but remains silent. That’s fine. Her stare is nothing compared to the potent presence of my stalker, prowling along the edges of the building. I’m almost afraid to step outside, afraid he’s going to jump from the shadows and finally trap me up in his claws. But as Agnes begins to open her mouth, I find the courage to hurtle through the doors and out into the humid air. I hide amongst the others on their evening commute as I weave, bob, and zip through the crowd.

I feel my stalker coming closer, but I have to stop looking over my shoulder because people are starting to stare. The sweat is pooling down my neck now, under my arms, below my breasts. I don’t know if it’s from the heat or my own fear anymore. His fingers are reaching for me, I can feel the trails of grey they leave through the air like wisps of smoke.

I get to a crosswalk and loiter, my toe tapping with agitation as I wait for the little green man to appear, permitting me to continue. I fight down wave after wave of nausea, wipe the sweat from my neck uncouthly, glance over my shoulder. He’s gaining on me, and I can’t wait any longer. There’s a break in traffic and I dart across the street, jumping at the blare of horns and screeching tires. But I need to create distance. The drivers would understand if they could see the grey stalker maliciously on my trail.

Somehow, it doesn’t matter. He follows so close that I can feel his breath touching my neck now.

“Don’t give in, Claire,” I whisper to myself. “Keep going.”

I hurl another look over my shoulder, my damp hair so slick against my face it doesn’t even flutter with the movement. There! He’s right there, playing with the silky edges of the shadows in the alley. I pick up my pace into an unladylike trot and simply do my best not to crash into other people. I notice angry scowls and annoyed frowns but, still, I increase my speed.

I’m sure I’ve passed my bus stop, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The point is to resist and persist. Keep myself out of his clutches, sprint if I must, damn the manners. But he seems to be everywhere now – in every shadow beneath the brow of louring faces, in the grey of the sidewalks and buildings and lingering storm clouds in the sky, in the deep thrum of the city’s noisy heartbeat. He’s everywhere and everything and inside of me and…

“Hello there,” the bartender says with a smile, “thought you said you weren’t coming back?” He wipes the counter and eyes me with a knowing look. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, sitting with heavy resignation.

He quickly prepares a rum and coke, sliding it to me when he’s done. The bubbles sparkle with promise and the lime slice smiles with mischief and the smell reminds me of my mom. Five days. I made it five days with a stalker snapping at my heels. But I just can’t resist anymore. The promise I made is just too heavy to lug around. I welcome my stalker home as I bring the drink to my lips, and it tastes of betrayal.