Again, But Better

Rage, rage against
becoming the stalker!
I huff a breath, a wave of hair fluttering away from my face as I watch taxis weave through
traffic.
It would be ridiculous.
We haven’t exchanged communication, other than a happy birthday on
each other’s Facebook walls, in six years. If I’m being honest, he missed my birthday last year.
I check my phone again. Still nothing. 
Call me back, Babe.
Stalker Shane thinks perhaps this inner turmoil means she needs closure; then she can go back to
her pre-boyfriend-proposing mindset. Everyone talks about closure on TV. Closure is magic.
Closure is the knife that’ll sever the what-if strings and leave her free to dwell on other less
irrelevant things. Like Boyfriend. And … marriage. Taxes. Gastroenterology. Important shit.
I speed-dial Babe one last time. It goes to voicemail again.
“Babe, where are you? I think I’m about to do something stupid, and I need you to talk me out
of it. Or maybe tell me it’s not stupid and I should go for it.” I hang up and make my way down to
the sidewalk, mind racing.
I come to a standstill at the curb. I have a missed text from Melvin: Counting the minutes till
your return
I blink at it. I think he’s trying to be cute, but without emojis and punctuation, there’s an
underlying creepiness. I tap out of Messages and push away this new claustrophobic feeling that I
now apparently associate with my boyfriend.
A yellow cab’s approaching.
Don’t do it.
I throw up my arm.
Full-blown stalker status, unlocked.
I can do this. I can talk to him again. I can say things. I’m a grown-up. I’m almost a doctor. This is
casual. This is nothing.

---

When the taxi comes to a stop, my stomach’s turning itself inside out, but I have a plan. It’s
simple and classy. Simple and classy. It’s classy. And it’s simple. I’ll ask him to grab a cup of
coffee. That’s a normal thing that people ask people when they want to catch up.
I step out of the car. My tight, blue business dress rode up and got all twisted in the cab. I hastily
pull it down while I crane my neck to get a better look at the generic, sleek silver building towering
before me. A wide set of steps leads up to a row of glass doors.
I spend a good two minutes staring at the doors. 
This is a terrible idea.
Then I steel myself. 
Do it for the closure
.
My tiny neutral-colored heels clack up the stairs. I fumble a little as I take the last two steps at
once, before striding into a large, high-ceilinged, empty lobby. Gold elevators line the wall a little
way in to the left, and a man with gray hair sits behind a desk to my right.
“Good morning!” I greet him.
“How can I help you?” he responds blandly.
I clear my throat. “I’m looking for Pilot Penn. I believe he works at FJ Golf. Could you tell me
what floor I could find him on, please?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but it’s all right. I’m a friend of his,” I lie. I mean, we’re kind of friends.
The security man stares at me for a second, contemplating whether or not I should be allowed up
without an appointment. He seems to decide I’m not a threat to the building.
His face falls, and he mumbles, “You’re going to need a visitor’s badge. Name.”
“Shane Primaveri. P-R-I-M-A-V-E-R-I,” I respond automatically. He scribbles my name on a
small white sticker, slaps it on a badge that says 
VISITOR
, and hands it over the counter.
“Put it on and head up to the sixteenth floor.”
I carefully clip it to my silver cross-body purse before ambling over to the elevators on the balls
of my feet in attempt to be less conspicuous. Why is the urge to be stealth overwhelming? I don’t
need to be stealth!