He had been following her for about three weeks. He was familiar with her routine now. Each morning she would stop at a small cafe and order a different type of pastry. Sometimes, she would order a pot of yoghurt. She would always sit in the window, staring wistfully at the passers-by. Afterwards, she went to work.
She worked for an insurance company, but he hadn’t been able to get inside the building. He watched her through the window as she typed busily on a company computer, or chatted with her colleagues. Around midday she would leave the office and sit on the wall by the canal, with a packed lunch on her lap. When the weather was bad, she would take refuge inside her car.
In the evenings she left abruptly, dead on five o’ clock. Following her home was always difficult; she drove erratically. He had to brake sharply several times.
He wondered how long it would take her to realise he was following her. He thought about leaving a note, something vaguely threatening. Perhaps a few facts about her life that no stranger should know. He discarded the idea – for his plan to work, he would have to catch her completely by surprise.
Picking the right moment would be fun. As he watched her undress through her flimsy net curtains, he settled back in his car seat. He hadn’t showered in weeks. He’d been living off junk food, and his shirt was stained with stale ketchup. He didn’t care – this was bliss. It was an aching feeling, a sort of build up before an orgasm. He didn’t know when the climax would come, and neither did she.
That’s what made it so sweet.