Have I crossed the border into ‘stalking?'
Well, please don’t report me.
That would just suck.
I crossed a different border just the other day: the one of the law. No, I didn’t take part in some petty teenage crime like graffiti or robbing a liquor store; it wasn’t anything like that. Instead, I drove down to the old Mc. Miller farm—you know, an hour down the highway, only cattle for company—and then I parked in the bushes, hidden.
And what did I do then?
I walked up to the fence surrounding the farm, and I climbed right over. Now, this was in the evening, when there was just enough light to make sure I wouldn’t rip my jeans. But, what I didn’t anticipate: the sun going down completely. Stupid move on my part, agreed, but after fifteen minutes of walking through the overgrown forest and it was pitch black.
The sort of dark that, when you closed your eyes, you'd cease from exsisting, disappear from the world completely.
So I found a spot that was fairly dry after last night's rainstorm, and sat, my legs crossed like a pretzel. From where I sat in the dirt, I could hear the crickets, birds in the trees, and snapping of twigs, all at the same time. An orchestra.
Though I felt lonely, utterly abandoned, there was only one person I wanted to see: you.
You’re at a tennis camp this week, right? One of those white-jacket, lemonade camps for athletic teens? Someday you’ll have to play against me.
You’d probably win.
Anyway, if I have bordered on stalking, and you end up showing my letters to the police, could you do me a favor? Could you leave this one out?
I’d like not to get slammed for trespass and entering, along with harassment.
Then again, I’d probably forgive you in a heartbeat.
If I still have a heart, that is.
