escaer9668

I had a stalker. I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine. I called him Charlie. He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way. He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He

write me a letter, not emails or tweets. blue pen scribblings on sheets of paper crisp. in five hundred words, two pages and a half - tell me you thought of me on cigarette breaks. go on foot to a post office, paste the stamp yourself. i shall be clouds away expecting the mail truck. © 28.February.2012 :house: