Status: Done
The Stopwatch
One
He stalked her non-stop for 2 weeks. Watched how she took some dim backstreets on her way home from work. Saw her leave and return to the building everyday, without even looking at the doorman. He saw the doorman stare at her. Repeatedly.
He hid and watched through bushes, car windows, and sometimes even behind the filthy mist that crawls up from the open sewers of the main avenues.
She laughed around carelessly with her friends that Sunday. Unknowing that two tables back, a plastic jumbo cup of coffee hid her blue cap-wearing fate. That evening she got up and left, and for the first time in 16 days Michael Bjorman didn’t follow. She could not watch him grin as he walked to his car. But he could see the fear painted in her future. Clearly. When he licked his teeth, he could even taste it. Then he waited.
Day 17 was a Monday. And Nadia got up early, but not too early for she wasn’t expecting any unprecedented events. She walked her usual path, without looking at the doorman, at an irregular pace, without looking at her wristwatch until getting to the gates of the office, with no need to measure her time or to get to her desk at the exact same minute that she did everyday. In other words, ones that will be more effective for the purpose of our tale, she didn’t share anything at all with the twisted Mr. Bjorman on the Starbucks across the street.
Not a single trait. Only a destined bond, which was to be revealed without fault in 7 hours and 43 minutes.
If we exclude his first 2 years, Michael Bjorman had counted everything for the last 22 years and 217 days. He heard every second come and go, each with a mechanic click. He saw the world as graph paper, he could touch the lines dividing every inch of the space. This made him crazy, to say the least. He did not like it. Having lived a metronome’s life for as far as his memory went, he did not appreciate the fact that the world is seemingly run by chaos.
Nobody could say how much he loathed roaming around only to find care-free, ignorant behaviors. It became unbearable to cope with people going by without noticing what he noticed, for in his eyes, he was right. Or that’s what he chose to think. It could very well just be the effects of the headaches this constant overthinking gave him. In fact, anybody who has a similar problem with analyzing the world will say that sometimes you won’t have so much anger as anxiety. What it was, dear reader, is your choice. The fact of the matter was the following. On June 15, 2010 at 10:32 with 11 seconds in the morning, Michael Bjorman was losing it.
The hours passed aimlessly from that moment on. Between nervous and calm heartbeats, he drank espressos like an endless whirlpool. He looked at the window of the 5th floor, where he knew she labored. He counted the height in feet. He counted the height in meters.
He noticed the measurements for a 3rd floor window were 1.3 centimeters off. Left his seat a couple of times for the restroom. Employees gathered behind the counter to talk about him. They are used to people spending whole days there, but it’s usually wannabe writers with laptops. This one didn’t seem to have an occupation at all, It’s like he sat there sightseeing the world from the inside out. He could hear them. He didn’t care.
People came and went through the venue, but to him they were mere accessories to his day. They always were. It’s difficult to think about people as such when all you see in their faces is a number of wrinkles, of freckles, of smiles, of sighs. All of which had no meaning to him. None of which he could understand.
He got up from his seat at 5:56 and stood on the curb for the remaining minutes. It was cold and cloudy out, but there wasn’t a threat from the rain. Rain would’ve made Nadia walk faster or even ask for a ride, which would’ve been an ordeal. But the day was surprisingly calm. Calmer than the steady footsteps clacking on the pavement from the other side of the street. She came out of the gates and slung the briefcase over her shoulder. He threw the wrapping of a peppermint gum he’d bought on a trash bin he found hanging from a light pole. Then he looked up. He smiled.
He followed.
He hid and watched through bushes, car windows, and sometimes even behind the filthy mist that crawls up from the open sewers of the main avenues.
She laughed around carelessly with her friends that Sunday. Unknowing that two tables back, a plastic jumbo cup of coffee hid her blue cap-wearing fate. That evening she got up and left, and for the first time in 16 days Michael Bjorman didn’t follow. She could not watch him grin as he walked to his car. But he could see the fear painted in her future. Clearly. When he licked his teeth, he could even taste it. Then he waited.
Day 17 was a Monday. And Nadia got up early, but not too early for she wasn’t expecting any unprecedented events. She walked her usual path, without looking at the doorman, at an irregular pace, without looking at her wristwatch until getting to the gates of the office, with no need to measure her time or to get to her desk at the exact same minute that she did everyday. In other words, ones that will be more effective for the purpose of our tale, she didn’t share anything at all with the twisted Mr. Bjorman on the Starbucks across the street.
Not a single trait. Only a destined bond, which was to be revealed without fault in 7 hours and 43 minutes.
If we exclude his first 2 years, Michael Bjorman had counted everything for the last 22 years and 217 days. He heard every second come and go, each with a mechanic click. He saw the world as graph paper, he could touch the lines dividing every inch of the space. This made him crazy, to say the least. He did not like it. Having lived a metronome’s life for as far as his memory went, he did not appreciate the fact that the world is seemingly run by chaos.
Nobody could say how much he loathed roaming around only to find care-free, ignorant behaviors. It became unbearable to cope with people going by without noticing what he noticed, for in his eyes, he was right. Or that’s what he chose to think. It could very well just be the effects of the headaches this constant overthinking gave him. In fact, anybody who has a similar problem with analyzing the world will say that sometimes you won’t have so much anger as anxiety. What it was, dear reader, is your choice. The fact of the matter was the following. On June 15, 2010 at 10:32 with 11 seconds in the morning, Michael Bjorman was losing it.
The hours passed aimlessly from that moment on. Between nervous and calm heartbeats, he drank espressos like an endless whirlpool. He looked at the window of the 5th floor, where he knew she labored. He counted the height in feet. He counted the height in meters.
He noticed the measurements for a 3rd floor window were 1.3 centimeters off. Left his seat a couple of times for the restroom. Employees gathered behind the counter to talk about him. They are used to people spending whole days there, but it’s usually wannabe writers with laptops. This one didn’t seem to have an occupation at all, It’s like he sat there sightseeing the world from the inside out. He could hear them. He didn’t care.
People came and went through the venue, but to him they were mere accessories to his day. They always were. It’s difficult to think about people as such when all you see in their faces is a number of wrinkles, of freckles, of smiles, of sighs. All of which had no meaning to him. None of which he could understand.
He got up from his seat at 5:56 and stood on the curb for the remaining minutes. It was cold and cloudy out, but there wasn’t a threat from the rain. Rain would’ve made Nadia walk faster or even ask for a ride, which would’ve been an ordeal. But the day was surprisingly calm. Calmer than the steady footsteps clacking on the pavement from the other side of the street. She came out of the gates and slung the briefcase over her shoulder. He threw the wrapping of a peppermint gum he’d bought on a trash bin he found hanging from a light pole. Then he looked up. He smiled.
He followed.
♠ ♠ ♠
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