Ruin

I heard you the first time. At the cheeseburger place last night, you at your table with your friends, chewing with your mouth open, spitting fries as you all took turns yelling out plot points of the movie you had just seen. The movie that had just opened. The movie I was planning to see after dinner.

And you ruined it. My one chance to sit in that dark theater and bond with the director in a mutual pact of wonder and surprise. Gone. You stole that from me.

I confronted you about it, over by the salad bar. (You grabbed a handful of black olives; did you steal those, too?) You shrugged me off. “It’s no big deal,” you said. “I could see the ending coming a mile away.”

You left me standing there as you and your friends headed out the door, guffawing. Your girlfriend proud to be with such an oaf.

I kept my cool. I left the cheeseburger place. I headed for the next showing of the film.

But before I got to the theater, I saw you again. In the parking lot.

You never saw me. How I followed your car. How I watched as you dropped off your friends, your girl, drove home.

You never heard me. How I came in through your patio door. How I watched as you slept.

This morning, inside the closet, I can hear you now. Singing in the shower, off-key, butchering that Britney Spears song like you butchered my movie.

The song ends. The water stops. I flex my grip around the handle of the aluminum bat, the one you forgot to stick in the patio door to prop it closed.

I hear you humming. I hear you approach the closet door.

Okay, smart guy—how do you think this will end?