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October 23

Hello my little nightmare,

Fuck me, that mask looked so fucking good on you. Yes, I saw you try it on. No, I'm not telling you from where. You went back to the Halloween shop after work and picked up that black lace half-mask. You held it over your face, looked into the mirror and stayed there long enough that I thought you might actually be enjoying the reflection. But then you frowned, turned sideways, adjusted your hair and pulled at the hem of your top. There was this look on your face like you were searching for whatever flaw would give you permission to put the mask back.

You obviously found one, you always do. I heard you whisper, "Too much," and take it off. That pissed me right the fuck off. Too much for who, sweetheart? You like the mask. It makes your eyes look darker and your mouth look indecently noticeable, and fuck, I stared at your mouth for way too long. You looked hot in it. More importantly, you looked like you knew you looked hot for about three seconds before that miserable little voice in your head showed up and told you to sit down.

I'd like five minutes alone with that voice in your head. Shame I can't actually beat the shit out of an insecurity, because I'd enjoy trying. But you bought the mask anyway, and fuck, that helped.

Then you stood at the counter, glanced toward the window and smiled to yourself while the woman wrapped it. You knew I might be watching. I could tell by the way you looked around after you stepped outside. You weren't doing that jumpy checking you did after the first letter. You were looking for me because you wanted to know if I'd seen you.

I had. Then I went and bought my own mask because apparently I have no fucking self-control where you're concerned. Black. Plain. Nothing stupid on it, and I made sure I could actually see out of the damn thing because tripping over a fake tombstone would really kill the mood. I've put it on twice already and thought about you both times. Tonight the fantasy is simple and I'm going to share it with you. I'm behind you in front of a mirror, we're both wearing masks and my hands are on your waist because you put them there.

I don't grab you because I don't have to. I wait, and you're the one who leans back first, settling your head against my shoulder while you keep your eyes on our reflection. That's the part that keeps replaying in my head: my mouth is close to your ear while I tell you what the mask does to me, my thumbs moving over your hips. I think you'd be nervous and turned on enough to laugh at yourself for it, because your sense of humor has the worst fucking timing.

Then I'd tell you to keep looking at yourself. That part has been stuck in my head all day. You look away from yourself all the fucking time, sweetheart. Mirrors, photos, shop windows, even when somebody tells you you're beautiful. You hear a compliment and immediately start trying to prove them wrong. I want to see what happens when you can't brush me off that easily. Fuck, even writing that down gets me worked up.

Maybe because I know you'd argue. Maybe because I'd enjoy proving my point slowly. Your friend is taking you for drinks tonight. I heard you agree after she promised not to discuss me for one whole evening, which was probably optimistic on both sides. Go. and have fun. Wear the mask I know is in your bag if you feel like doing something reckless and harmless. I'll be somewhere in the world trying not to imagine it.

That last sentence was a lie.

Sleep eventually, beautiful.

The bastard with the matching mask.

P.S. If you catch yourself looking in the mirror tonight and thinking you're too much, try something new. Leave the thought there and walk away without taking it with you.

October 24

Evening gorgeous,

Yeah, I hurt him. There, sweetheart. We can get that out of the way before you spend six pages trying to decide whether I'm going to confess. The man from the bar is alive and in hospital because I put him there, and I'm not sorry. You went out with your friend last night. You wore black jeans, that fitted top you pretend is "nothing special," and the lace mask stayed tucked inside your handbag the whole time. You checked for it twice like it was some touchstone. I noticed because of course I fucking did.

For most of the night, I watched from far enough away that you got to forget about me for a while. You laughed. You drank something pink you claimed was too sweet and then ordered another one. Your friend made you show her a photograph on your phone and you both nearly choked laughing. You looked happy, I loved that you looked happy. Then an idiot put his hand on your waist. You moved away and he followed. You gave him that polite smile you use when you're trying to reject somebody without making him feel rejected, and you were still trying to be nice to the asshole after you'd already moved away from him.

He didn't take the hint.

Your friend told him to back off. You said you weren't interested. But he still moved closer anyway, then caught your wrist when you tried to step around him. You started yelling, and good for you. You shouted for him to let go, it made people look over. So he released you and laughed like he had been part of some joke you were too sensitive to understand. Then you apologized to the bartender for "making a scene." That almost made me angrier than his hand did.

You didn't make the fucking scene; he did, and I wish you'd stop cleaning up the emotional mess left by people who behave badly around you, smoothing things over for them and then going home wondering whether you were the one who overreacted. You weren't rude, you weren't asking for his hand on you because you wore a fitted top, and you know damn well you'd say exactly that if it happened to another woman. I need you to stop being kinder to every asshole around you than you are to yourself.

I'm thankful your friend got you home, because I followed him. What happened near the river belongs to me. You didn't ask for it, and I'm not calling it a gift. He put his hands on you after you told him no, so I followed him. I'm not dressing it up into something prettier. I know your friend saw the news report before you did and called the detective. Again, that was her. You didn't suddenly decide you were afraid of me. And when she arrived at your office, she had already told him about the man from the bar.

You looked at the photograph on the screen and I know you knew I did it. There was this look on your face, and it wasn't fear. I'll admit that did something good to my ego. The detective asked for the newer letters. You told him there was nothing relevant to the assault. I know yesterday's letter was in your bag. The lace mask was in there too, and when you showed him neither one, your friend realized immediately because of course she fucking did. She waited until the detective stepped away and asked why the hell you were protecting me.

You said, "I'm not protecting him but I am keeping something for myself." That sentence has been under my skin all day. But now, beautiful, I'm done pretending I only want to watch you drink coffee and argue with homewares prices. I want you without dressing the thought up as anything sweeter.

The mask has been in my head since yesterday. So has the mirror. Tonight the fantasy changed because I stopped imagining you frozen between curiosity and uncertainty.

In my head, you turn around.

You put your hands on me first. You hook your fingers into my shirt and pull me down until the black mask is close enough to brush your cheek. You tell me I've talked far too much for a man who has spent a week hiding behind paper. Then you kiss me like you're annoyed about how much you wanted to. That right there has been fucking with my head all night. I don't want resistance or some little game where I pretend you're less willing than you are. The exact opposite turns me on more. I want to know what you look like when you stop apologizing for wanting something.

Give me greedy hands, an honest mouth, and tell me what you like without softening it into a suggestion because you're worried about being demanding. You spend all day making yourself easy for other people. If I ever get you alone, give me difficult and selfish for once. I want the woman who knows what she wants and expects me to keep up. That's plenty for tonight. Tomorrow I may lose these last scraps of good manners.

Yours, and definitely not getting any saner.

P.S. Like I said, the man from the bar will live. Whether he ever laughs at a woman for telling him to let go again is his problem to deal with.