She is the object of my desire. I want only the best for her, because she is special and deserves it. She is modest and doesn’t see how important and worthy she is. But I see it. I see it in her eyes. They are blue-gray and expressive. I watch her eyes when she isn’t looking. I see that she understands the world and is saddenend by it, as I am.
Her name is Jennifer.
Her hair is blonde and she has some pale freckles. She is pretty. But that is just the external Jennifer. Inside she needs care and attention.
You think I am a stalker? You are wrong.
Jennifer is my wife. I wouldn’t stalk my own wife, since that makes no sense.
It’s just that she sometimes doesn’t understand her own power, her own goodness and the light she shines on others. That is why I ask her to be careful.
She says she will be, but she really isn’t. She has friends who take advantage of her. Why should she drop everything to go see a friend who has barely proven their friendship to her? People treat her with less than the respect she deserves, at work especially. She does nothing to change this, because she has faith in others.
I love her more than anything. More than my mother, or myself, or Perky, our dog.
Sometimes people are too good for this world.
Now you think I would kill my wife. Jennifer, the woman I love. Of course I would not kill her, or harm her in any way. You have been reading too many trashy novels.
But I need to do something. You see, I am dying.
I haven’t told Jennifer this, but of course she already knows. She puts that stuff in my soup, in my coffee, and thinks I can’t taste it. But I can. It tastes a bit like clay, sort of slatey and salty.
She knows best though. She is wise and kind. I’m sure she has chosen a formula that should not cause me pain. And there is not much pain, not much at all. When I start to cramp up, she brings me tea.
I love her so much.