Creepy old men

I’ve been staring at her for a while now. Her red hair, painted nails, short skirt, the way she carries herself, her curves, oh god her curves. I remember the first time I met her. She visited my bookstore, brushing her finger across the mystery and crime section, debating which book would be the right one for her.

She went up to the register carrying a total of three mystery and crime books, and one dark romance. I chuckled, scanning the items which made her chuckle as well. Her embarrassed energy made me want to pick her up and just go at it on this very counter. I knew she wanted it too. Her short denim skirt was practically begging for it. Though I stayed composed, knowing the wait was gonna be worth it.

She left that evening, and ever since that day, I’ve been looking over her. Where she lives. Where her family lives. Where she spends her time. Where she works. Turns out she’s a not so famous writer. Must be why her apartment looks like a whole library. Sometimes I look through her big window and catch a glimpse of her taking her shirt off. She is so dull sometimes. Stripping naked, the curtains not covering the window enough. Creepy old men could break in and hurt her fragile body. She is so fucking dumb I could kill her.

But I’m not like other men. I’m respectful and kind and I know when a wait is needed.

And I’ve waited enough.

The February weather has caught onto New York and I’ve followed Mrs's red hair through several clubs and endless shots. She has reached the subway station and is now walking in circles in her high heels and her sparkly black miniskirt. Her cheeks are red yet her gaze stays the same. Innocent. My kind of innocence.

She giggles to herself, repeating the same words.

“Worst thing ever, worst thing ever!”

Her movements stay controlled but I still flinch every time she reaches close to the rails. She can’t fall down. I can’t let her fall. Her steps become more shaky and before I know it, my arm has caught her waist and my gaze is staring into hers. I don’t know if it was the atmosphere in this valentine time or the subway driving past making her red hair fly all over the place, but this was more than just a crush. It was love.

I lose my grip and she finds her balance fast, her brown eyes fixating on mine.

“What is the worst thing ever..?” My words are confident, making her tilt her head in compulsion.

She hesitates a bit, before she bites her lip and sighs.

“Worst thing ever! That’s what he said to me..”

I feel heat entering my body making me want to demolish everything at sight. Who in their right mind has got this extraordinary woman so unbelievably sorrowful?!

“Who? Who said that?”

“My boss.”

That fucking miserable creature. Luckily I’ve researched every person involved in her life, and I will make it my mission to make her boss’s life a living hell.

“Do you want me to kill him?”

Her gaze loses its spark slowly, making my eyes flicker. Did I say something wrong? Is she serious? Why is she making that face and why has she backed up, fuck?!

“What..?”

“I said, do you want me to drive you home?”

She returns to her cheeky smile and I exhale the stress that’s been building up in my throat.

“I don’t want to sound like a stalker but, I think I know you..” she says, as her eyelids weaken.

…

She remembers me. She’s thought about me. She’s thought about my face and wondered where the hell I’ve been all her life, god I knew this was love! I reach for my neck and scratch it carefully.

“You’ve met me a lot of times, actually.”

I mean, that wasn’t a total lie. I’ve watched boring movies in the theater knowing she’s sitting two rows down from me, I’ve ‘accidentally’ bumped into her, on her way to work, and don’t even mention the times where I’ve left thousands of positive comments on her awful book.

“You don’t remember? Hah, you must be really drunk.”

She shakes her head denyingly. I wrap my jacket around her shoulders and follow her out the subway. The brightness from my phone makes me scrunch my face. I just have to find her a goddamn uber. I let go of her slowly, and watch as the wind caresses her hair the way it looks in the movies. The city lights cannot compare to this star. She’s shining more than ever.

We quietly stare at each other in the car. Her legs are crossed and I move my gaze down to her alluring smooth thigh. Can’t believe she lets herself go out like this. Creepy old men might follow her home.

“Where have I met you before?”

I look up at her. Her brown eyes have vexed me every time I look at them. It’s starting to irritate me.

“It was a beautiful day in August. You had just published your new book and I went to your meet and greet. You signed my book and gave me a sticker. You don’t remember?”

I’ve watched her endless boring facebook posts and found out that she had a meet and greet in August at her university. I met her in September. A smirk appears on her face and she starts chuckling.

“That didn’t happen.. Cause no one came to my meet and greet..”

“I came to your meet and greet.”

She’s so fucking pathetic. Why can’t she just believe I came to her fucking boring meet and greet. This is making me mad. Thank god I am not like other men. They would have sliced her in two the second she doesn’t go their way.

She ends up falling asleep on my shoulder, and I carry her to her door step, holding her keys in my right hand. I can’t leave her on the streets. Creepy old men might do something to her while she’s asleep.

Her apartment smells as I imagined. Old books and vanilla scented candles. I place her body on her queen-sized bed. Her black tube-top is falling down. I reach for it and find myself stroking my hand around her b cup. I must stop, right? Only creepy old men do something like this.

But, I am not like them, and.. she knows that. Because we’ve met before.

In august. At a meet and greet.