The text came at sundown, saying she was scared, a surprise text
since I thought we were through, she’d received another text from her stalker
and she feared he might show up at her door, and she needed someone to be there
with her if he did, with me driving in a panic in a car not a white steed to rescue
the damsel in distress, full of my own self-importance, only to find when I
arrived she was more collected than I was, motioning for me to sit on the couch
beside her as she turned on the TV to watch her favorite food guy, a man she’d
once met and later wrote about, whose books she kept on the sheets along with
mine and my boss’, she clutching me as I sat, perhaps mistaking me for him, her
fingers trembling as I realized she really was scared, and maybe truly believed
the boogie man would knock on the door, that kind-hearted chef who would love
her to death if given a chance.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Just hold me,” she said. “That’s what I need right now.”
So, I did.
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