White-haired Man Stalker

An older gentleman with hair the color of Jefferson’s powdered wig–not Washington’s, situates himself near my table. My crap is spread all over the orange circle surface. This is an experiment on my part–are white noise chatters and espresso machine murmurs less distracting than active teenagers, a peppy Dachshund, a moaning elderly lady and a bevy of spiders. We’ll see. Jefferson (I’ll call him) places down a large coffee and electronic device. I think his fingers are tapping in beat and measure to the song he’s hum-singing. Into my left ear and out the right goes his happy. I’m finding, I don’t mind. I’m more curious.

His large-knobbed knuckles guide the iPad with a youthful confidence. Interesting. I’m not a wonderful judge of age, but I’m guessing he might be in his late sixties. His boxy fists wear no wedding rings. Sitting up straight and true in his café chair, his broad chest is leaning a bit forward into the table. He’s in good shape. I realize now I’m staring. There is nothing between us to hide the fact that I’m observing him. I’ve decided to call it observing because staring sounds a bit creepy. I wonder if a fifty-three year old, artist/writer woman ever got nailed for stalking a humming older gentleman with nice calves.

What is Jefferson’s story? Why am I infatuated with his possibilities? How long can I stare without getting caught? Was it a mistake to crawl up from my basement studio?

The list of questions is growing with no obvious answers coming and yes, I’m still staring. I think his eyes are brown and he’s got those angular brows that make a man manly. His hum-singing has turned to full on humming as he appears to be multitasking–reading, sipping and beating to music simultaneously. Shit. Without warning, his face goes vertical. I’ve got nowhere to run so I fallback on Plan B: lame ass smile. He smiles back. Damn, are those teeth real? Nice. My face springs into action by aborting the mission. My eyes jockey to the right across the vast sea of books–none written by me.

Far on the opposite side–the store’s DVD and music section. There a large “FEATURED ARTISTS” sign looms near the ceiling. In my present state of mind I imagine it reads “EAT ARTISTS.” This makes me laugh. I return my scandalous eyes to my unfinished manuscript scattered across the small café table. Discouraged, I decide it’s time to sneak another peak. Jefferson’s table is vacant. He’s gone missing. How the hell did he leave without my noticing? How long was I looking at that damn sign?

I’m sad now and out of excuses. It’s time to decide if I’m an artist/writer or the stalker of a white-haired, broad-chested gentleman.

M's Tears

M’s Tears

this was one of those quickie marker sketches from last year-thank you



7 thoughts on “White-haired Man Stalker

  1. Beautiful work AnnMarie! You are such an incredible artist, and a wonderful friend, beautiful woman, great writer. I am glad you liked ‘The Catwoman’ story as long as you like it I consider it a success, Maybe I’ll write more Catwoman story adventures. AnnMarie=Number One! Woo hoo!


  2. Sorry, I can’t hit “like” and not “comment” — it’s my conscience nailing me to “what’s right.”
    First off, did this woman recently get implants? Because as I remember her last year she seemed a bit more flat-chested. 😉
    Seriously though, AM, I like this post which just goes to show that you can also write pretty much straight-ahead nonfiction, essayish work. Writing is terrific, but again it’s that “mind on the page” I’m so drawn to reading.
    And btw: you’re everything–artist, writer AND stalker (writers always have their eyes wide open to what’s going on or, as Joan Didion says, they’re always selling somebody out. As it should be. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • same gal, same front end:)
      this was inspired by my recent B&N visit – albeit – exaggerated for the purposes of spicy storytelling;)
      thank you, DS
      and remember, it is okay to just hit “like”
      lol, I should find make a button and send it to you
      happy (m)onday


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