He meets my eyes again. I look away, my throat closing up in dread. Did he notice? I look out the window and pretend to watch birds, trees, passerby, anything outside of the café. I flinch when I hear a chair scoot across the floor in his direction. I risk a glance, who wouldn’t glance at the sudden noise?
Oh no. No no no, he’s coming this way. He’s staring at me. This can’t be happening, no, no-
“Excuse me,”
I Reluctantly look up into his eyes, and shudder under the intensity of his gaze. He seems nervous. Anxious.
“You come here a lot. Or, rather, I see you here a lot. And I noticed you looking over at me-”
Stop, please stop. Don’t say it, don’t ask-
“I was wondering-”
Shit. Shit, don’t look at me like that!
“Would you mind if we sat together?”
“… What?”
I reexamine his gaze, trying to grasp at its anxious energy. Oh. Wait, no.
“Well, I um. I just figured, since we’re both here at the same time, we could… talk?”
What the hell? I look around, and see we are alone in the café. My heart sinks, but I nod, and he sits down with his cup of coffee.
“I’m Octavian.”
I know.
“Candy. My name is Candy.”
I already know his name is Octavian. I know his coffee is a mocha with cream.
“Hi Candy.”
He smiles warmly, and my heart sinks even lower. Why, why did he have to be so friendly?
His name is Octavian Rumarrk; he is six foot two, weighs two-hundred and thirty-two pounds, has bright green eyes, doesn’t smoke, drinks occasionally, lives at 5541 Allbright, apt 211.
And he has a stalker, her name is Candy Morgana.
Let me explain. There’s no good explanation. You don’t do the things I do if you’re a good person. I’m not one. But I try to be. I don’t hurt people. Mostly because Octavian wouldn’t like that. But also because I know it’s wrong.
But I don’t know how to stop feeling the way I feel about him. For three years now, I’ve been watching him nearly every day, through hidden cameras, windows, and, twice a week, across the café. I’m not stupid. I have a routine, and going to the café is perfectly innocent, because it’s on the way to my job.
I work as a part time photographer for a newspaper. I’m good with a camera. I also work as a private investigator for people online. I have my talents, and they revolve around being nosy. Balancing work and life is difficult, but having this excuse to be in the same room as him is worth everything.
I’ve definitely fantasized about going over and saying hi to him, seeing him up close, looking into his eyes… But isn’t this the wrong way around!? Why did it go like this!?
“What do you do for work, Candy?”
“I. Take pictures. For, um, a newspaper. The Peregrine Post?”
My voice is shaky. I need to get a grip. Does he know? Is he going to suddenly spring it on me, like in those TV shows?
“Oh, I think I’ve read a few of their articles.”
He hasn’t. But he’s trying to be nice. He doesn’t like disappointing people. Why is he being nice to me? Doesn’t he know I have half a dozen pictures of him in my wallet right now? Oh god. Did he see them when I was paying?
“I work as a teller, down at the old town bank.”
He used to be a pilot, but he wanted to settle down in one place. He lives alone. His uniform is still in his closet.
“I see. Did. Did you always want to be a teller?”
“Not really, but I don’t mind it much. It pays well, and I can walk to work.”
Three blocks, rain or shine. He works overtime most days, continuing to file paperwork after the bank has closed for the day.
“What about you? Photography seems like it could be interesting.”
“Well, I suppose so. I tried it out one day, and I was pretty good, so…”
“But, do you enjoy it?”
I falter, and look down into the liquid mirror of my morning coffee. My own, shockingly calm face stares back at me.
“I think so. When I take pictures, I get excited, because I’m taking something and making it immortal, permanent.”
I look up. He looks awfully smug, and my heart skips several beats. He flinches and looks down at his watch, before standing suddenly, threatening to spill both our coffees.
“Ah hell, I’m going to be late. But, I’ll see you here again on Monday?”
I nod and attempt a smile, but he rushes off without noticing.
All the tension in my body releases at once, and I nearly plunge my face down on my cup. A noise like a seagull getting strangled shivers its way up my throat, and I seal my lips against the manic laughter. What in hell just happened? I cover my face with my hands, and stare through my fingers, sweat beading up on my skin, my mouth drying out, my head burning, my stomach twirls.
In my mind, I replay every second of the encounter, recalling his subtle expressions, his nose, his ears, his mouth, his lips, the glimpses of his tongue behind his teeth. I shudder, and turn to the side, biting my thumb. His eyes, his bright and wonderful, terrible eyes, burning into me from beyond the hills of my mad memory. I feel as though someone has pulled the zipper of the flesh that hides my soul.
I attempt to collect myself, but pulses of warmth still race up my back, melting the intelligence out of my skull. I kick my feet a little, and gasp, before holding my breath and squashing down my delight with rabid rationality.
I have to maintain the facade. He expects to see me again on Monday, every Monday and Thursday. The mere thought that he will speak to me again threatens to drag me back into the valley of physical insanity, so I am forced to block the notion from realization for the time being. I have to be careful. I cannot allow him to glimpse beyond the curtain into the wretched madness that has gripped me since I first laid eyes upon him. I wonder if it is not safer for me to disembark, to stop appearing before him, to withdraw into the one-way glass of the shadows.
I ache at the notion, at the mere suggestion of snubbing him like so. He has seen me here twice a week for, likely months, as I have been drinking the nectar of his polite glances for at least that long. For me to vanish would be an insult, a wound to him that he does not deserve. I am incapable of wielding such cruelty against him. I’m a flightless bird, a worm deprived of the dirt. No, I must stay the course.
But sacrifices must be made. If I am to meet with him, to, by the grace of some merciful divinity, hear his voice directed my way, pronouncing my name, then I cannot be so brazen. His pictures must flee my wallet, and I must control my renegade gaze.
My visage stills, and calm envelopes me. I turn, and regard the forgotten cup, abandoned in haste opposite mine, the rim still wet in one place where he drank from it. One last volatile shiver of heat drifts slowly up my back.
Seeds of Fear 