Page 17 of Letters From A Stalker

She studies me, perhaps deciding whether I’m teasing her or quietly correcting her. The slight narrowing of her eyes suggests she hasn’t decided.

“You looked guilty afterward,” I add.

Her fingers stop moving over the bottle cap. “I’m not.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You implied it.”

“I said you looked guilty. That doesn’t automatically mean the guilt belongs there.”

Her gaze drops. For a few seconds, she says nothing, and I let the silence remain. She notices quickly.

“You do that on purpose.”

“Do what?”

“Wait until people get uncomfortable enough to keep talking.”

“I’m listening.” I explain, keeping my tone plain but at the same time inviting enough for her to continue.

“That sounds suspiciously strategic.”

“It can be both.”

A breath leaves her that could almost be a laugh.

“I know I’m allowed to remember good things,” she says eventually. “It just feels strange when the ending was so…”

She trails off.

“Violent?” I offer.

Her eyes return to mine.

“Yes.” The word is barely louder than the heating system moving air through the vents.

“The way someone dies can become so dominant that it starts rewriting everything that came before it,” I say. “Remembering him before the suicide doesn’t erase what happened, and what happened doesn’t invalidate every good memory.”

“I’m aware of that… logically.” The pause in which she said that tells me otherwise so I offer another explanation.

“Logic and grief rarely cooperate.”

“I thought psychiatrists preferred logic.”

“We prefer honesty. Logic is useful when it isn’t being used to hide behind.”

Her mouth tightens. “That sounded targeted.”

“It was an observation.”

“You’ve been making a lot of those.”

“It’s part of the service.”

“Should I have chosen a cheaper package?”

It takes all I have to stifle a laugh, but I do take on the challenge of the back and forth. “That depends on how attached you are to the chair.”