I was stalking before it was considered fashionable: an angelic schoolboy with the devil on my back and binoculars in my satchel. I still remember my first victim. Traumatized for years by my ski mask in her window, gifts of dead roses, knives on her pillow.
She dropped out of school, found salvation in drugs and married me—ten years now, baby on the way. A picture of domestic happiness. She’s feeling delicate tonight, so I’m taking her a nice cup of tea as she rests in bed. It’s pleasantly surprising that the ski mask still fits after all these years.