Page 84 of Stalker's Toy

And now, every time we talk, she demands to know if I’m seeing someone, if I’ve finally moved on.

Her persistence drives me insane.

Last night, she wanted to know if she should have dinner for three planned out.

The woman is intolerable, with her nonstop chatter about who’s with who, who’s doing what, as if it matters.

I watch her through the window as she lingers in the garden, smirking at one of the statues like she’s in on some private joke with the artist.

She treats everything like a prop in the play of her life.

She used to get drunk with other gallery owners and bitch about people.

Maybe that’s why I still can’t get drunk enough to forget the shit she’s done.

Now she’s sipped just enough wine that she’s more unbearable than usual.

I wonder what it would be like to paint her with oil paints.

Call it “Two Bottles In.”

Maybe it would get her attention.

She’d see herself in those shades of gray, old and faded.

Tonight is going to be impossible.

She wants to go to the gallery.

I know she’ll ask again.

I know I can’t keep putting it off.

The last time we were supposed to go, she got too drunk so I drove us to a restaurant and watched her drink before bringing her home.

Couldn’t have her embarrassing me at myown business.

The only question is how many glasses of wine she’ll have before bringing it up.

She’s already on her second, sitting on the goddamned sunroom sofa like it’s a throne and we’re her court.

Mia.

My light in the dark.

I grab my phone and tell her to be at the gallery.

She has to be there.

It's been too goddamn long without her here.

I tell her to wear something professional, yet something that speaks to her gothic style.

Something that’s perfect.

Something that’s fucked up in just the right way.

I need this.

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