Page 47 of Stalker's Toy

She's back in town, and now everything's fucked.

That's how it goes with my mother.

The attention.

The guilt.

The neediness.

The way it fires me up, spins me away from what's important—what's mine.

Being the dutiful son means catering to her whims.

It means theater tickets and long lunches and pretending I give a damn about what she thinks of the city's cultural pulse.

It means I'm not where I need to be.

I should be thinking about Mia,wondering if she's sleeping, if she's eating, if she knows I’m keeping an eye on her.

Instead, I'm babysitting.

I can almost feel the distance stretching, me on one end, my toy on the other.

I sit in my office, finishing up a conference call.

Thank God she left me alone long enough to talk to my investors.

Who knows what sort of rubbish she would have spewed if I’d let her have her way and sit in.

Words buzz in my ear.

Synergy.

Opportunity.

Projections.

All I hear is I'm not with Mia.

Then a soft humming creeps in under the door and across the walls.

That damn song.

The one she used to sing when I was a kid and she was still normal.

Still amother.

I hang up the call, barely mumble a goodbye before I do, and I wait.

There's a pause, that silence before the storm.

The humming gets louder.

And there she is, sweeping in like a breeze scented with nostalgia and Chanel No. 5.

"Henrik," she says, eyes bright, cheeks too pink to be natural. "Is your conference call done? It's a beautiful day. You should come out and enjoy it."

This is what she does—arrives with fanfare and expectations, flipping my world upside down.

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