Edith
written some time in 2008... no idea when!
Edith wasn't sure why, that Wednesday evening, she felt the need to double check that she had locked the doors, firmly shut the windows, and closed all the blinds. Perhaps it had something to do with the great gusts of wind that made the window panes stammer and the oak trees crackle, or perhaps the house was feeling particularly uncomforting after the kitchen light had burnt out the day before, and Edith had forgotten to stop for a new one on her way home from work. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Edith was living on her own for the first time in eight years, and she still wasn't quite used to having only Rufus the calico cat for company. Perhaps it was all of these things, but more probably it had something to do with Stan. Edith wasn't sure if his name really was Stan, but it seemed a fitting name for the rakish, unkempt, mouse-like man who had been an incessant figure in Edith's life for the past three months. Stan the Stalker.
At first, Stan's obsession with Edith had seemed innocent enough. She had noticed him one day on the bus ride home from her job at a minor advertising company. He had stood at the doors, an intense look in his eyes, light brown hair ruffled in more of a I-shower-once-a-year way than an I'm-a-teddy-bear-hug-me way. Edith saw his laser-sharp gaze settle on each person as they got on the bus, and again as they got off. It unnerved her.
The next day, Stan was on the bus again, in the same place, with the same intense look on his face. There were plenty of seats available by the time Edith got off, but Stan never budged. He just stood and stared.
A few weeks went by, and Stan became a regular on Edith's ride home. She wondered vaguely where he got on and off, but mostly ignored him and read her book.
One particularly rainy day, Edith got off the bus, and Stan followed. She registered this change in routine, and kept him in her peripheral vision, curious as to his destination. After a couple of blocks, he turned down a side street, and slightly disappointed for no particular reason, Edith walked the rest of the way home alone.
Most days, Stan was on the bus when Edith got on, and still there when she got off. But every so often, he would get off at her stop. After a few of these occurrences, Edith decided to keep track of the days that Stan got off with her. She liked finding order, patterns in life. But after a couple of months of drawing vaguely Stan-like squiggles in her planner, no pattern was forthcoming. Edith stopped wondering what Stan did when he left the bus, but she still kept track of his routine.
One day, Stan followed Edith a block farther than usual. When he didn't disappear down his regular street, Edith turned round and looked at him. He looked straight back, then a split second later, ducked away, startled. Edith turned around again a block later, but he was gone.
After this incident, two whole weeks went by without Stan getting off the bus. Edith wondered if she had somehow scared him, with that backwards glance. But three days later, Stan once again was behind Edith for a few blocks on her walk home, then slinked off down the same side street as usual.
All this, of course, was trivial, a minor amusement at the end of another tedious day. Edith never thought about Stan for more than a few seconds before burying herself in her latest book. And she never thought that there would ever be anything more about Stan for her to ponder apart from Where will he get off today? and When will he ever shower?, closely followed by Does he even own a shower? and Maybe he's homeless... nah. Until one day...
It was another rainy day, and when Edith took her seat on the bus she thought of nothing but wiping the rain off her glasses and miserably contemplated how wet she would get on her walk home. Stan was on the bus as usual, but his presence barely registered. Edith blew her nose with gusto, wiped her eyes, and gazed out the bus window glumly. When the bus got to her stop, she got off reluctantly, and Stan followed. Edith briefly wondered if he only got off in particularly bad weather, then abandoned the thought and went back to being miserable. She trudged all the way home, unlocked the door, and stepped inside, water shedding everywhere. Only as she turned to close the door behind her did she notice Stan staring at her from across the street, a few meters away. Their gazes locked, Edith blinked in astonishment, and then he was gone.
Edith pulled off her sodden shoes, peeled off her socks, and scurried into her bedroom. What had Stan been doing in her street? Was he following her? Had she imagined him? I'm just being self-important and paranoid, Edith thought. I'm sure it had nothing to do with me. She went to bed that night thinking of Stan, but not coming up with any satisfying reasons for his appearance in her street.
The next day was clear. Stan was on the bus as always, and was still there when Edith got off. It must have been nothing, Edith thought.
Then the notes began to arrive. Reminders to go to the drycleaners, lists of books to read or movies to rent, short poems about cats and vacuum cleaners, observations about the day's events. All on scraps of paper, in the same handwriting, sometimes hurried, sometimes neat and precise, placed in her mailbox at all hours of the day, occasionally with her morning post, but often there when Edith got back from work, or even late at night, when earlier in the evening the mailbox had been empty. Edith never saw them delivered. She asked the mailman about them one day, but he had never seen them. Edith could only assume they were from Stan, somehow, for the notes had begun appearing only a few days after Stan's mysterious presence in Edith's street. And now, Stan never got off the bus at Edith's stop.
Edith wondered whether to confront him about the notes, but she couldn't build up the courage. After all, she told herself, she was probably being silly, coming up with this ridiculous fantasy life in which she received notes from strange men from the bus in the dead of night. For all she knew, she could be writing the notes herself, in her sleep, and the only mystery to be solved was how to get a better night's sleep. But still, the handwriting. The handwriting was not her own.
Edith wasn't sure why, that Wednesday evening, she felt the need to double check that she had locked the doors, firmly shut the windows, and closed all the blinds. Perhaps it had something to do with the great gusts of wind that made the window panes stammer and the oak trees crackle, or perhaps the house was feeling particularly uncomforting after the kitchen light had burnt out the day before, and Edith had forgotten to stop for a new one on her way home from work. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Edith was living on her own for the first time in eight years, and she still wasn't quite used to having only Rufus the calico cat for company. Perhaps it was all of these things, but more probably it had something to do with Stan. Edith wasn't sure if his name really was Stan, but it seemed a fitting name for the rakish, unkempt, mouse-like man who had been an incessant figure in Edith's life for the past three months. Stan the Stalker.
At first, Stan's obsession with Edith had seemed innocent enough. She had noticed him one day on the bus ride home from her job at a minor advertising company. He had stood at the doors, an intense look in his eyes, light brown hair ruffled in more of a I-shower-once-a-year way than an I'm-a-teddy-bear-hug-me way. Edith saw his laser-sharp gaze settle on each person as they got on the bus, and again as they got off. It unnerved her.
The next day, Stan was on the bus again, in the same place, with the same intense look on his face. There were plenty of seats available by the time Edith got off, but Stan never budged. He just stood and stared.
A few weeks went by, and Stan became a regular on Edith's ride home. She wondered vaguely where he got on and off, but mostly ignored him and read her book.
One particularly rainy day, Edith got off the bus, and Stan followed. She registered this change in routine, and kept him in her peripheral vision, curious as to his destination. After a couple of blocks, he turned down a side street, and slightly disappointed for no particular reason, Edith walked the rest of the way home alone.
Most days, Stan was on the bus when Edith got on, and still there when she got off. But every so often, he would get off at her stop. After a few of these occurrences, Edith decided to keep track of the days that Stan got off with her. She liked finding order, patterns in life. But after a couple of months of drawing vaguely Stan-like squiggles in her planner, no pattern was forthcoming. Edith stopped wondering what Stan did when he left the bus, but she still kept track of his routine.
One day, Stan followed Edith a block farther than usual. When he didn't disappear down his regular street, Edith turned round and looked at him. He looked straight back, then a split second later, ducked away, startled. Edith turned around again a block later, but he was gone.
After this incident, two whole weeks went by without Stan getting off the bus. Edith wondered if she had somehow scared him, with that backwards glance. But three days later, Stan once again was behind Edith for a few blocks on her walk home, then slinked off down the same side street as usual.
All this, of course, was trivial, a minor amusement at the end of another tedious day. Edith never thought about Stan for more than a few seconds before burying herself in her latest book. And she never thought that there would ever be anything more about Stan for her to ponder apart from Where will he get off today? and When will he ever shower?, closely followed by Does he even own a shower? and Maybe he's homeless... nah. Until one day...
It was another rainy day, and when Edith took her seat on the bus she thought of nothing but wiping the rain off her glasses and miserably contemplated how wet she would get on her walk home. Stan was on the bus as usual, but his presence barely registered. Edith blew her nose with gusto, wiped her eyes, and gazed out the bus window glumly. When the bus got to her stop, she got off reluctantly, and Stan followed. Edith briefly wondered if he only got off in particularly bad weather, then abandoned the thought and went back to being miserable. She trudged all the way home, unlocked the door, and stepped inside, water shedding everywhere. Only as she turned to close the door behind her did she notice Stan staring at her from across the street, a few meters away. Their gazes locked, Edith blinked in astonishment, and then he was gone.
Edith pulled off her sodden shoes, peeled off her socks, and scurried into her bedroom. What had Stan been doing in her street? Was he following her? Had she imagined him? I'm just being self-important and paranoid, Edith thought. I'm sure it had nothing to do with me. She went to bed that night thinking of Stan, but not coming up with any satisfying reasons for his appearance in her street.
The next day was clear. Stan was on the bus as always, and was still there when Edith got off. It must have been nothing, Edith thought.
Then the notes began to arrive. Reminders to go to the drycleaners, lists of books to read or movies to rent, short poems about cats and vacuum cleaners, observations about the day's events. All on scraps of paper, in the same handwriting, sometimes hurried, sometimes neat and precise, placed in her mailbox at all hours of the day, occasionally with her morning post, but often there when Edith got back from work, or even late at night, when earlier in the evening the mailbox had been empty. Edith never saw them delivered. She asked the mailman about them one day, but he had never seen them. Edith could only assume they were from Stan, somehow, for the notes had begun appearing only a few days after Stan's mysterious presence in Edith's street. And now, Stan never got off the bus at Edith's stop.
Edith wondered whether to confront him about the notes, but she couldn't build up the courage. After all, she told herself, she was probably being silly, coming up with this ridiculous fantasy life in which she received notes from strange men from the bus in the dead of night. For all she knew, she could be writing the notes herself, in her sleep, and the only mystery to be solved was how to get a better night's sleep. But still, the handwriting. The handwriting was not her own.
posted by Rosie Cotton | 7:03 PM
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