Obsession of a Broken Heart

d buried secrets. The curtains in my mansion's upper chamber are always drawn just far enough for me to see

Maybe she does. Maybe this is why she never totally turns off the light. I enjoy it,

, I've been drinking like a guy adhering to his routine. Whiskey's burn used t

without a glass of red wine. When she turns the pages of her old romance novels, the spines are so worn that they split. I know it died

ght to have turned a

es me a sense of it. She's beautiful, but not the way magazines depict it. Not at all. She

indow. She's moving once more and clearing her supper. A little light f

omething

rough. Light pours in. Her g

she s

at. J

istance and frozen betwe

e sq

't look aro

n. Walking back from the kitchen, I saw my own reflection in the window: the tired shadow

p feeling travels up the back of my neck, like the ghost of a knife pre

aw hi

I can feel him even should his face be formed of darkness. watching His presence

ts have been playing tricks on me; with every wall creak, paranoia r

fr

mething else. There is no shame. Just silent ow

is th

stop loo

my hands tremble. I should rise, close the draperies, turn off the lights, and call. But I don'

ar. Not acceptance. Not any. Somethi

is racing

t out of dread, no. But be

at I might uncover if

tep back from the window. My f

close it

another

turn off

till feel that weight, th

ks under

w this is n

looked

e sa

m. did not flinch. di

ugh her body had sensed somethin

d. The lights are off. Nevertheless, I still picture her in my mind, her bare feet pressed against the c

l find out, but the mailboxes downstairs are fading,

s to be waiting for her wine glass to communicate something back to her as she runs her fingertips

ink about the sil

t her beauty. But another thing. Something more profound.

g enough to identify the signs. insomnia. My appetite is less

the curtain and forget her name, her face

n't, t

I must k

oesn't she pick up her phone? Who caused h

ous about

just out o

more sinist

e the owner o

who witnesses her

sage is charred into the shadows. I've n

There's a little black notebook insid

her name a

lla Man

words beneath it

nce Naples. I used them to follow men I subsequently buried

ow solely have he

ni, Isa

eat, it's a ritual. I respect the accuracy. She partially opens the blinds, b

day. Out of habit, she stirs her coffee while drinking

hear eerie, low melodies that seep through the windowpanes. Sh

r, I alw

s of a man, now facing away from a potted plant, was on her wall. The coffee

han a woman.

darkly circling

. shallow brea

here was

A shadow. Short. slick. Behind her

eart b

herself. N

ss she

However, the silhouette is no

nyone she inv

he noticed

ot in terror. However,

r be aware of it.

s out now. The fine line. The prac

tch my fingers. That itch, the one t

he window into

e stands. Still. t

stay

hough, that she

ent's air h

r. Not any warmer.

are aware of som

re time. That feeling of observing something. The tingling sens

tress. separation. After everything with Mat

ense it a

hot for me to appreciate. My muscles remain taut, as if

Put on a sweatshirt and pants.

e living roo

ing of the

resent. The wi

ves. Only a li

rtbeat q

lowly. My breat

indows that are dark. rooftops. The

ill clenches

e it. That look. weighty. sti

t know w

s my eyes ache. I then take the

I st

e to lo

on the

uilding fa

h floor. The lef

o motion I see. Not a

ll, I

ow how I kno

is

ver th

is wa

don't think he