Page 20 of Perfect
I can feel a soft humming starting in the back of my head, but I try to ignore it. It’s a famous line from a famous poem and it’s a second-hand book, so maybeshedidn’t underline it.
It probably doesn’t mean anything.
I move into her minuscule kitchen that barely has enough counter space to cook. Her fridge is full of take-out containers,her freezer is full of premade foods, and her cabinets are mostly filled with snacks and things that don’t require cooking. She has no pots, pans, or cooking utensils atall, just cutlery and one large kitchen knife. Does she not know how to cook? I could teach her how to cook, or I could just cook for her. I wouldloveto do that.
I drift into her bedroom, where the walls are covered in expressive sketches, watercolors, and pen and ink drawings of the coast. Many of them are of the wreck of theIredale, and the humming in my head gets a little louder. I went out there constantly in high school when things were too hard to deal with, but it’s a popular beach with a cool attraction. Her spending time there probably doesn’t mean anything, either.
I examine each drawing, finally removing a small pen and ink drawing I like and slipping it into my backpack. There are also a few tiny canvases scattered on the walls here and there, and I take one of a small, detailed peony. Nana grew peonies in the front yard, and I love how they smell.
Alex’s small bedroom is crammed with a full-sized bed, a narrow nightstand, and a slim, low set of drawers. I frown down at the bed. I’m tall enough that it’s going to be a pain in the ass to sleep here if wedostart dating, but putting anything bigger in here would eat up what little floor space she has.
Her closet is small and full of new clothes, with a hamper of dirty clothes on the floor. I rifle through her drawers, pausing when I reach her underwear drawer. Apparently, she wears thin mesh bras and tiny thongs under all her loosely cut clothing. God, I really wonder what she looks like naked. Without thinking, I grab a soft, lacy black thong and slip it into my pocket before I close the drawer.
Alex keeps a planner and a little cup full of colored pens on top of her dresser, and her planner details everything she does in a day in color-coded, bubbly handwriting. I flip through herplanner, happy to find that we both like structure and wondering how she decides on her color coding.
She works from eight to five Monday through Friday, written in blue. On Tuesday nights, she does trivia with someone called Anna, noted in orange. She spends half her Saturdays in Portland, which is written in purple. She tracks her periods and monthly breast exams and IUD string checks in pink, and I’m grateful to know she’s on birth control. She takes various rec center fitness classes during her lunch break, sprints on Fridays after work, and goes for a long run on Sundays, all written in green. If staying active helps her manage her feelings, we’re alike in that regard, too. I take photos of the past entries and of her upcoming month to review later.
I wonder what color I’d be in her planner as I move to her cramped bathroom, which isn’t decorated at all. Next to the small clawfoot tub is a tiny metal rack that’s packed with skincare and haircare and a massive bag of Epsom salts. I go through her medicine cabinet, finding very little of interest. There’s her toothbrush, some floss, a small first aid kit, a box of hair dye, and some normal, over-the-counter medications. She has some makeup, even though she barely wears it, and there’s a small, half-empty glass bottle of an expensive-smelling peony perfume. I spray a little on my wrist and inhale deeply. It’s fresh and floral and warm, and I’m almost positive she was wearing it the first time I saw her.
I wonder how it smells on her skin.
I put the perfume away and go back into her bedroom to rifle through her cluttered nightstand. There’s a glass water bottle, a romance novel next to the bulky lamp, and a little dish with a phone charger, some lip balm, and a spare set of keys. I slip the keys into my pocket and check my phone, noting the time.
How have I been here for almost half an hour? According to her planner, she’s got Pilates at the rec center today, so sheprobably won’t come home for lunch, but I should leave soon just to be safe. I glance back at her nightstand, my eyes landing on the romance novel.
I think I can stay here alittlelonger.
I flip through the book, noticing she’s dog-eared an explicit sex scene. I sit on her bed and feel something under the covers, pulling back the duvet to reveal a slim purple vibrator. I can feel myself getting hard just looking at it. Did she masturbate this morning? How often does she masturbate? How compatible would we be in bed?
I lay back on her bed and start to read the sex scene, undoing my pants slowly. The sex scene is tame, all things considered, but it’s still hot enough that I’m getting harder. I pull her underwear from my pocket and rub the soft lace up and down my length, gripping myself hard in one hand and the book in the other. I imagine it’s us that I’m reading about, and I try hard to imagine what she’ll feel like wrapped around me. When I come, I clean myself off with her panties, doing my jeans back up and shoving the wet fabric into my back pocket, swallowing my irritation with myself.
It’s going to take time before we have sex, and thinking about it is going to distract me from getting toknowher. This was a problem with Ashley – I was so distracted by the sex that I didn’t notice anything was wrong for a long time.
Looking back, I think she used that against me.
I can’t let myself get distracted by the sex this time. I need to get toknowAlex. That’s why I’m here.
I look over at the pile of clothes by the foot of her bed and freeze when I see a familiar worn, dark green knit sweater tucked under a pair of sweatpants. I pull it out and hold it up, the humming in my head starting again as I look at it. It’s a knit University of Oregon sweater that looks exactly like the one Nana bought me when I started college.
There’s no fucking way.
Lots of people went to that school and had this sweater in this size, so there’s genuinely no fucking way this is mine. I grab the neck and seeTRAwritten in my grandmother’s handwriting on the tag in faded Sharpie, and I’m so shocked that I drop the sweater on the bed. I stand there, staring at it as the noise in the back of my head takes over everything.
I donated that sweater less than a month ago, andshebought it.
The feelings I have about herareright.
Alex and I areconnected.
I don’t know how long I stand there, stunned, but I try to clear my head as I step back into the living room. I was right to follow the impulse to come here. I’m starting to feel like we’re meant to be together, but that’s just a feeling, and I need evidence.I think it’s entirely justified if I put a few cameras up. I brought them in case I thought getting to know her better was worth it, and now I’m positive that it is. I’ll watch her routines, get to know her tastes, see how she is when she’s alone, and once I’m fuckingsurethat my feelings are right, I’ll figure out the best way to pursue her.
I look around her living room, scoping, scrutinizing. She’s got some house plants and decorative tchotchkes, but her place is still small enough that I need to be careful. Thank god these cameras are so small. I pull out my laptop and set it on her couch, linking it to my phone’s hotspot before I pull out a handful of cameras. I pair them to the software and then start placing them, tucking one behind the leg of her TV, one on top of her fridge near a plant, one on top of her undusted medicine cabinet, one in her closet, one in the base of her nightstand lamp, and one on the low dresser underneath the lip of a metal dish that has a random assortment of hair clips.
I check the camera feeds for the angles of the cameras, adjusting as needed, placing a few more for good measure until I’ve got a view of her apartment from every angle. The cameras are small and out of the way enough not to be noticed, and she doesn’t seem to be super observant of her surroundings, anyway.
I’ll have to come back regularly to charge them, but that’s not a problem. I want to be here more often. The longer I’m in her apartment, the calmer I feel. It feels like a home in a way that my place doesn’t.
I pull out her cheap laptop and open it up, the home screen popping up at once. I shake my head in disbelief at her lack of password, jamming in a USB drive and installing a rootkit. Now that I have her keys and eyes on her and the ability to see what she looks at on the internet, I’ll be able to get to know her on a deeper level.
