My Stalker

I hadn't heard from my stalker in a while. He had the usual questions—where are you and are you alone and so on—and I recited my usual evasions as I lurked around the house, pulling on a sweatshirt and turning off lights and looking sideways out windows and locking doors. I didn't like that my stalker stalked me, but I am not so ingrate that I cannot admit that there was something soothing about being stalked by the same stalker for over twenty years. It was the only continuous thing in my life other than me, so it served as a kind of company, a kind of marriage.

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