Sarah, the stalker
Back in Vancouver, I got roped into taking a client to a hockey game. I haven’t cared about professional sports since I was a kid, so I spent most of my time trying to pitch my agency’s services for his brand and checking my watch. I went out to smoke a cigarette and struck up a conversation with an irritated brunette, also smoking, clearly on the verge of divorce.
“We get one night this week when my parents can watch the kid and he takes me to a fucking hockey game!” Not being one to court a married woman, no matter how fiery, so I kept my distance, and just listened to her complain. That is, until she told me, “Listen Mister, you seem like a pretty stand up guy and I am in desperate need of a brief, passionate affair. Give me your number.” I handed her a business card then went back to my seat, blushing.
In the weeks that followed, Sarah pursued me relentlessly, calling the agency once a day to see if I was available to take a “long lunch.” She wrote stream-of-consciousness emails relating her dreams of giving up her middle-management position at the pharmaceutical company and taking her stand-up act on the road. An excerpt:
You could come with me, Knox, be my manager. I know I’ll probably always be a hack, but I’m a cute girl with a dirty mouth, that’s got to count for something, right? It will be all-night benders, bloody mary breakfasts, broken bottle threats directed at bush-league club managers for not giving me my full cut of the door. You wouldn’t even have to stay faithful to me. I promise. I’d certainly cheat on you, with the ugliest, going-nowhere sack-of-shit locals I could find….
I eventually relented and took Sarah to a hotel one afternoon. Sure she was crazy, but she was my kind of crazy and I figured once she got her rocks off, she’d move on. Instead, her obsession with me only intensified. The calls became more frequent. The emails more extreme. She showed up at my door and announced her divorce was being finalized and that she wanted to move in. I literally had to sneak out of my own apartment and then wait for her to give up and leave. She left the place trashed.
After three months, it stopped being funny or interesting, so I refused to see her. After a six, it became seriously frightening and I was completely on edge. After a year, it became a fact of life. I knew when I went out on dates or for a drink after work, that Sarah would be watching. I anticipated that when I received a text message at dinner, it would be from her, asking me who the skank was. I almost began to enjoy the constant, schizophrenic attention.
And that’s when it stopped. Cold turkey. What should have been relief was instead anxiety. I wanted to know what happened, so I tracked her down at her parents’ house and asked why I hadn’t heard from her in weeks.
“I don’t know, Knox. I guess I just don’t love you any more.”
And fuck, if I wasn’t devastated.
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