Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
She isn’t home to hear my break-in, and her neighbors won’t think the sound is out of the ordinary in their creaky old building. I know for a fact that she’s currently out with Franklin, probably on her first cheap beer of the night at the dive bar they like to frequent.
It’s only eight-thirty, just dark enough for me to slip into her building in my baseball cap without anyone taking note of my presence.
Now, I can see her personal space up close. I plan to scour her apartment for clues about what makes her tick. She will submit to me. I just have to figure out the best way to seduce her.
She consumes my thoughts, and as much as I’m enjoying the novelty of these feelings that she brings out in me, I can’t abide the imbalance between us.
I didn’t go to the café this morning; I won’t see her again until I know exactly how to woo her. My control nearly cracked when we exchanged dark fantasies online last night, after she fled from our date.
Something sours my stomach. Jealousy again.
I’m jealous of my own online persona. Abigail trusts GentAnon with her intimate secrets, but she cringed and ran when I kissed her in person.
I shake off the ridiculous notion that I’m envious of myself. I’ll have all of Abigail soon enough.
With any luck, I’ll find what I need to seduce her during this clandestine exploration of her private space.
I decide not to risk turning on the overhead light. The streetlight outside casts an eerie green glow through the tiny apartment, and that’s enough for me to navigate the small space.
Her front door opens directly into an area that could generously be called a living room. Her kitchen is to my right, and her couch is to my left. In between, her easel is propped up without a canvas. She never puts the easel away, as though she can’t bear to spare even a few moments setting up when she feels the feverish drive to paint.
Peculiarly, the peeling wallpaper that surrounds me is devoid of art. Does she find it distracting to her creative process? Why doesn’t she hang her own paintings in her living space?
A keen, gnawing sensation hollows my stomach, both irritating and fascinating. I think this strange discomfort must be what desire feels like. Not sexual desire, but an emptiness that can only be satisfied by intimate knowledge about the object of my obsession.
I shake off the unpleasant, distracting sensation and take two steps into her cramped kitchen. It’s only a matter of minutes for me to determine that there’s very little food in her cupboards—boxed macaroni and cheese is shelved between tinned ravioli and a massive tub of creamy peanut butter. The fridge houses a few wilting vegetables.
Abigail has a willowy frame, and I wonder if she makes an effort to maintain a trim figure or if she simply can’t afford more food.
In the freezer, I find a single pint of ice cream: Belgian chocolate flavor. Her one indulgence amongst supermarket-brand basics.
I make a mental note of it. Once she agrees to another date, I can use this knowledge.
But it’s not nearly enough. I already know that Abigail is fond of sweet treats because of the silly badges she wears on her work apron. Usually, I would find an adult woman’s affinity for such things childish and a bit idiotic, but with her, I’m charmed. Each little enamel pin is a clue to her quirks and personal preferences, and I’ll eagerly study every small eccentricity that might reveal her secrets.
I cross back into the living room, spanning the small space in four paces to reach her bedroom. It’s barely big enough for a twin sized bed, which is tucked into a corner beside the only window. The view shows peeling yellow paint on the building next door, and nothing else.
Abigail’s art showcases the natural world. Surely, she must feel stifled in this cramped, urban space?
The gnawing sensation has returned. I grimace and choose to ignore it.
A quick perusal through her drawers tells me that she either doesn’t care much for fashion, or she can only afford a few basic items. I recognize the simple, soft black t-shirts she wears for her barista job. There are a few more delicate tops mixed in: camisoles with paint stains.
I trace the shape of a particularly beautiful spray of azure on the neckline of a pale pink top. The colors are barely discernible in the dim lighting, but I imagine the blue hue is similar to the remarkable shade of her eyes.
My fist closes around the soft cotton, and before I can think better of it, I tuck the small shirt into my pocket. She might miss it, but I know she does her laundry in an aging machine that’s shared by all six apartments in her building. If she can’t find the top later, she’ll assume she lost it there.