“For God’s sake, not today. Aren’t you tired of stalking me?” Lynda yells at the handsome man. Holding the pole in the half-empty metro, she is commuting from her agent’s office back to her place in Montecito Heights, a suburb of LA known for its affordable apartments.
Being nice to fans is a principle that Lynda sticks by. Especially this one that is very easy to fall in love with. And not just because he is handsome. Everything about him is lovable. In a weird way, Lynda cannot think of anything that she would not find attractive in him. She would have easily considered going out with him if she had met him a few years back when she was still single. But now…
It’s not even his fault to be fair. Love does not have a particular formula. The poor guy must have seen her movies, fantasizing about her every night. Lynda does understand that; the first few times that he hit on her did make sense. What is surprising is that, as if he has no other purpose in life, he does not seem to get tired of stalking.
“Never. Not of stalking you,” the handsome man replies.
“You don’t understand. I have a boyfriend.”
“Congratulations! I also have a girlfriend, many girlfriends. But they don’t have to know.”
“Well, I would know. And cheating is wrong.”
“It’s not cheating if we both want it.”
“What!”
“Excuse me. Can I have a photo?” a tourist woman asks Lynda, holding out a bulky Canon camera.
Oh, no, Lynda thinks. Not another fan desperate to have a photo with me. “I’m sorry. I don’t wanna be rude, but I’m really not in the mood today.”
Her eyebrows shot up and her eyes popped open, the tourist seems in shock. Lynda regrets that already. Blowing fans off is against her principles.
“Okay,” Lynda says, letting out a breath. “But let’s make it quick. All right? Only one photo.”
“Here,” the tourist says, handing over the camera to Lynda. “The button is on the top.” The tourist then surprises the stalker by hugging him sideways.
Lynda has just realized that the tourist wanted to take a photo with the stalker instead. She needs a second to digest the embarrassing moment. Smiling, the stalker seems pleased with Lynda’s humiliation, which is weird; more than weird; it is kind of evil.
“You found the button?” the tourist woman asks, hugging the stalker more tightly.
Lynda snaps back to attention. Holding the camera up, she takes a photo and swiftly shoves the camera back on the tourist’s chest.
“Here’s my card.” The tourist puts her card into the chest pocket of the stalker’s shirt. “I’ll be in LA until next Sunday, in case you feel lonely at night,” she says, flashing her eyebrows.
“OK, bye now,” the stalker says, pushing her away.
“Bye.” Before she leaves, she leans forward, rises on her toes, and gives the stalker a kiss on the cheek.
“Seriously. Bye now,” the stalker growls.
“Okay. Call me.” The tourist woman winks and steps away.
“Soooo…” the stalker says to Lynda.
Lynda turns her puzzled eyes from the tourist back to the stalker.
“What do you say?” he asks.
“No,” she responds firmly.
“Please. Just one time. I’ll get you anything you want. You name it. There is no limit to my power here. Believe me.”
She never gets why such an attractive man chooses the lifestyle of a stalker. Not that she complains, no; it’s actually kind of flattering to know that her performances have converted such a charming man to become a fan. It is always good to know that your work has touched a heart. But, as Meryl Streep once said, fans are like a healthy drug that its overdose could hurt you.
“Excuse me,” another female tourist interrupts. “Are you Michael B. Jordan?”
“No.”
“Can I have a photo?”
“No,” the stalker shouts.
“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” she says, flinching, and sits back with a man that judging by the matching rings on their hands must be her husband.
“Next stop, Crenshaw,” the voice over the speaker says before the metro comes to a full stop.
“Aargh. Some people.” The stalker turns to Lynda. “So, what do you say?”
“Noooo,” Lynda yells and darts out of the metro.
“This isn’t your stop,” the stalker shouts.
Lynda ignores him at first but stops after a few seconds. She reads Crenshaw on the big sign on the wall before her. He was right. Her stop is the next, Western. She turns back to the metro, but it is too late. As the sliding door on the metro closes, through the glass windows she sees a couple of young girls approaching the stalker, filling her empty place by the pole. One is clothed in a red tank top and the other in a dark blue skort.
The metro leaves, breaking the locked gaze between Lynda and the stalker.