lipstick

She's been here recently.

It's 8.15am and she's left for work already, but the smell of her shampoo dances on the fluttering thermals of this room and the empty coffee cup on the table is still warm. I thumb through some of the letters on the desk; mostly financial. One postcard from someone called "Chris". I jot his name down in my notebook and saunter into the kitchen.

It's cooler in here; the little plastic fan built into the window is rolling lazily in the September breeze. There are magnets on the fridge -little replica bottles of French wine. I jot down the châteaus in my notebook and mark the Clarets with an asterisk. At the bottom of the sheet I write "secret santa?" Outside the beeping of a rubbish truck floats up through the vent. The street is full of people making their way to work, heads bowed into the wind, three-piece suits buttoned. Collars up. The light is cold, white. Winter is coming.

I don't think of myself as a stalker. The way I see it, if she got to know me she would know that I am her "one" -that there's nobody else on this ball of rock and saltwater who could make her happier; that I am the answer to all those questions she asks herself every night as she falls asleep in the arms of her lover. She doesn't even know I exist, but I'm working on that -gathering data, biding my time. It's all so clichéd, I know that, but you wait and see.

I sit in her armchair and light a cigarette. She won't mind- she won't even notice. She's a smoker too. I pick up one of the lipstick-stained butts from the orange clay ashtray and jot down "B&H" in my notebook. The lipstick gives me an idea, so saunter into her bathroom; a dark-blue tiled cube -immaculate and anonymous. I open her cabinet and open my notebook; writing the words "L'Oreal Glam Shine Natural Glow". Who comes up with these names.

I promised myself I wouldn't steal anything this time, so instead decide to leave something of my own behind. I want to infiltrate her sanctum, mark out my presence here. I reach into my pocket and put my fingernail clippers at the back of her cabinet.

"Piece by piece." I say to myself.

I leave.