Pov Joe:
"So you're not going to wish me a good day?"
"Have a good day, Beck." You put the books you bought in your bag.
You smile at me as you put your credit card in your wallet.
"Thanks, Joe." You turn around to leave the store.
Every step you took made the movement of your hips hypnotic to me. You did that on purpose. I'm pretty sure.
At the end of the day, many people tend to be disappointing. But are you, Beck?
Are you?
I work in a bookstore. Mr. Mooney taught me to appreciate books, both new and classic. I used to spend most of my time running the store and reading. These past two weeks, I haven't been reading much because of you.
In this digital age in which humanity finds itself, books have been cast aside by a large part of society. It's something I abhor. Social media where people convey things that aren't real in life.
Just for appearances.
Although I tend to despise social media, to the point of not having an account to upload selfies, on this occasion I am quite happy with its existence. Thanks to your parents' lack of talent for naming children, I was able to find you. After all, the name Guinevere Beck is not common in New York.
Your name is the same on both your Instagram and Twitter profiles:
@TheUnRealBeck
On Instagram, you have all kinds of photos: with books, in parks, bars, nightclubs, with your friends... but nothing familiar. I've checked what you write on Twitter: an emerging writer.
You're looking for a contract, but you haven't gotten one yet. Most of your writing is based on your alcoholic father who is dead. Although there was another section of them that I had to investigate why they were like that. That's when I discovered that you have two siblings.
Your older brother, Clyde, is a businessman, married, with two daughters. He still lives in Nantucket, your birthplace. I don't understand why you moved away, maybe you came here because you could meet me.
Or because of your dream of becoming a writer.
You have a younger sister who is carefree about her life. Her name is Anya... Your parents really sucked at naming children.
There is a good part of your writing where the main character, whether human or animal, is a representation of your younger sister. You envy her because she doesn't usually have any worries in her life. She follows a conventional path in medicine, while you are fighting against time to achieve your goals on a less stable path.
There are many tweets about your life: you complain that the apartment where you live is very small, you call it a shoebox. And thanks to the internet, I was able to find out where that shoebox is.
Bank Street, fifty-one.
You didn't mention me once on your account. Did our meeting in my bookstore mean nothing to you? I had to go find out, Beck. That's when I started making my presence known.
I had to dress up in expensive jeans, a gray shirt, and a black vest. Because my hair is quite noticeable, due to the small black curls I tend to have, I bought a gray cap. It helps me go unnoticed on these streets.
Every day I had to show up in different outfits to see you.
You're quite the nudist, I can tell at first glance. You live on the first floor and your large windows don't have curtains. Do you like people looking at you? I've seen you half-naked several times. I've even seen you masturbating in front of your computer. If I could get in there, I'd help you with that, believe me, I'm made for you.
You spend more time posting tweets and watching series than focusing on your writing. Which says a lot about why you tend to be stuck.
I left the store unsupervised for several days, handing over the reins to Ethan and Ayanokoji, just to come and see you for several hours a day, sitting on the stairs in front of your apartment. Waiting for the moment of our reunion.
That's when a black car pulled up in front of your apartment. A man with medium-length blond hair got out. He ran his hand through his hair, combing it back. He had a cigarette in his mouth, but he threw it on the ground in your doorway, stomping on it to put it out. He started climbing the steps to your door as if he were the king of the place, without a care in the world.
You opened the door and greeted him with a kiss as you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt to pull him into your apartment.
Beck, who the hell is he?
He sits on the sofa in full view of the window and you climb on top of him. You start to take off your clothes while he starts to touch you. I was overcome with the urge to go in there, kill him, and take his place. He doesn't deserve you. He doesn't deserve any of what he's experiencing now.
I figured just watching wouldn't be enough. I crossed the street, hoping no one would see me, and stood near your door so I could listen.
"I'm sorry. Daddy, I'm sorry!" Your moans were starting to turn me on.
Who the hell is he and why is he taking my place?
"Say it again, you little slut."
"I'm sorry, Daddy."
"You're a bad girl. Do you want me to spank you?"
"Please, keep hitting my ass."
I didn't know when I had pulled down my pants and started masturbating while imagining that it was me doing those things to you. Anyway, I was alarmed because I heard a car approaching. I pulled up my pants as fast as I could and went down the steps to leave.
I had sensed something. I turned my gaze toward the corner, but there was no one there. Anyway, the guy you were doing it with didn't last long, so you probably weren't satisfied. I can see that you're frustrated and sad. I waited a few moments on the corner and saw that the guy didn't take long to leave your apartment and drive away in his car.
A couple wouldn't do that. He's just using you, Beck, but I'm glad to know he's not your boyfriend. The coast is clear. Beck, I promise you that when we're together, with our bodies covered in sweat in bed, naked, I won't leave like that. I'll stay. To take care of you.