At Least They're Committed

“Come walk with me,” he beckons. But I can’t. I shake my head, no.

“Why not?” he’s slightly impatient. The sun is shining, I’ve been working for five consecutive hours, it would be good to get out in the December chill to awaken some perspective in me.

“I’m afraid.”

He already knows this. He also knows my fear has nothing to do with the fact that someone tried to break into my home last night.

“I want him to go away. I want them all to go away.”

He already knows that, too.

“You’ve taken evasive measures. You’re going to be fine. You need to walk with me.”

Why, why, why? After seven years? Really? Stalker No. 3 just had to find me online and let me know he still thinks about me? I feel sick to my stomach. I feel unsafe. Panicked.

“Even if you trust no one else, you need to trust me,” he says. That one I already know. Even if I do get stabbed or shot or molested, taken away before I’ve fulfilled my obligation to my family, I trust that it was meant to be; the right thing in some unearthly logic.

He’s been here several days now, not out of necessity — I’m really quite sane — rather as a respite for both of us. It’s 1:20 p.m. in my world. Gabriel sticks out his right hand and I take it with my left, grabbing my coat as we head out the office door.