Posthuman Blues

About a month ago I was walking back to my apartment from my nightly pilgrimage to the J.C. Nichols Memorial Fountain and noticed a girl who seemed to be following me. Her stride was mincing yet speedy, as if timed to keep her in my vicinity.

I walked past numerous storefronts before deciding, on a whim, to enter Barnes & Noble. Sure enough, the girl followed. Wondering how long -- if at all -- she'd accompany me, I took the escalators to the third floor. Looking down on the customers from above, I didn't see her. Later, after perusing the science fiction section, I didn't see any sign of her on the second or third floors. So it wasn't as if she'd been bent on cornering me.

Today I saw her again at the library. I was eating a parfait in the lobby and suddenly she was there, looking at me with what seemed like elusive fascination. I noticed that her forearms were riddled with scar tissue, as if she had spent several hours diligently slicing herself with a razor blade. "Goth" affectation or the aftermath of something darker?

"I think I've seen you around here," I said.

I sensed some sort of nonverbal affirmation. When she spoke, the words were swift and purged of nuance, almost clinical: "What are you eating?"

"A parfait." Somehow a justification seemed in order. "Instead of my usual coffee."

"What's your name?"

"Mac. Yours?"

"Libby."

And then she left, as furtive and strange as when I'd first seen her. I don't think she stuck around to follow me: for her seeming interest, she struck me as too preoccupied and inherently migrant for anything as time-consuming as petty stalking.