The Watcher

“Lliam Jackson, twenty-five years old.”

“Height: 5 feet 10 inches.”

“Weight: 175 pounds.”

“Brunette with green eyes.”

“Athletic build, focused on stamina.”

Six months had passed since their first date, and everything she learned about Lliam Jackson was written in a tattered, pocket sized notebook. She knew his favorite color, his favorite song, and his secret pleasures after the lights went out. She also knew his most hated things, his greatest fears. Today was Tuesday, and that meant a gift was due to her lovely Lliam. It had to be on Tuesdays, that was the day of the week they met after all. No other day of the week would do, but this Tuesday was even more special than any other over the last six months. This Tuesday was the day it was all to end.

Her gifts, letters, and tireless efforts had been rejected.

However, she was determined to be seen. The small brown box was her final gift to Lliam, all of her love was contained in that box, and it would be her farewell to him forever. She waited for the alarm to ring upstairs, and without fail it came at six o’clock. The sun was barely peeking through the blinds in the dining room, she had already made a pot of coffee for him. There was no time to waste with frivolous, daily routines, not on such an important day. She heard his heels thudding across the ceiling, and her heart began to pound, her excitement bubbling to the surface. She could have placed it at his bedroom door. It would have been much faster. More satisfying even, the intimacy that held. A lovely present outside his lovely bedroom door, but the lovely front stoop would have to do, it was too late to change her plans now. She waited quietly at the table, as his footsteps travelled down the stairs. Every morning his routine was the same.

Alarm at six o’clock.

Walk downstairs to brew coffee.

Retrieve newspaper from front stoop.

Walk back to the now brewed coffee and pour a cup to drink while reading the headlines.

Answer the sudoku puzzle on page thirteen.

Finish coffee and go back upstairs for a shower.

This routine was one of Lliam’s comforts, it made him less anxious. She loved watching his routines, they were reliable even when things were going horribly wrong, like the power was out, or he was sick. He walked to the kitchen, his mechanical pattern of retrieving coffee filters from the top left cabinet halted when his eyes fell on the full pot of coffee. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the coffee pot again. His hand travelled one shelf up in the cabinet, grabbing a mug that said “Not Today Satan” in bold cursive lettering. She knew it was the Satan mug, it was his favorite.

He walked out the foyer to the stoop, and there sat her lovely gift; it was wrapped in brown paper, edges creased to perfection, and his name written with excellent penmanship. He left the door open, taking a few steps back into the doorway; she could hear him mumbling and her heart fluttered. She held her breath waiting for the sound of ripping paper, and within moments it was delivered. That wonderful ripping, she almost couldn’t contain herself, but she had to be patient. Things were going to plan, and she had to let it flow. After a few deafening moments of silence the most wonderful sound came from the doorway. The high-pitched crash of a freshly broken mug, and an even lovelier sound followed.

Lliam screamed.

She had finally gotten his attention, she was noticed, and her heart soared; he ran through the foyer, catching his pajama’s pant leg under his own toes, but he caught himself on the counter. He rushed to the phone, hitting the green call button, but no dial tone could be heard. She got up from the table, walking toward the kitchen, toward such a proper and polite man exclaiming profanity after profanity. She tapped the counter behind him, only a few feet away. Lliam froze, sweat beading on his forehead, and hairs standing on his neck; he turned slowly, his breath caught behind the lump in his throat, and he saw the small woman. It was her, the one-night stand that had ruined the best relationship he’d ever had. Suddenly a sharp, burning pain shot through his rib cage. The shirt began to stick to his skin as a hot liquid spread down his abdomen; she grunted as the pain worsened and a soft ripping sound came from his skin.

“I’m sorry my love, but we simply weren’t meant to be.”