Confessions of a Stalker by H.P. Atilano

[Author's Note: Originally titled "The Specialist," this short fiction was first published on FB about two years ago.]



It happens every Wednesday afternoon at four inside a public library.

Time stops. Earth loses its gravity and everything moves in slow motion as he walks in – no, floats in—with the distinctive methodical gait of a well-bred gentleman. He glides over to the exact same carrel in the exact same corner, where a repro of Salvador Dali’s painting “The Enigma of Desire” hangs handsomely on the wall. He then takes out his box of wet tissue and wipes everything meticulously until he is certain he wouldn’t get contaminated by whoever occupied his spot before him. Then, he counts his pens, which he keeps in his pen organizer, arranged according to color and kind: black gel ink, red gel ink; black refillable, blue refillable; black oil gel, red oil gel...He counts them three times. And when he is finally satisfied with the state of things in his neat little corner, he takes out his own book and starts reading, caressing the pages with his handsome fingers. He brings his own books. I’ve never seen him touch any of the public library’s books.

I know his routine by heart. I know, for instance, that at exactly 5:15, he would take out a pouch, where he keeps his hand sanitizer. In the next five minutes or so, he would slather his hands with a copious amount of sanitizer and rub his palms fiercely, briskly, gradually picking up speed until he loses himself in the frantic motion of his own hands. And then the rubbing would slow down gradually, gradually until his hands, like my heart, finally come to rest.

I watch everything he does with his hands with a kind of guilty pleasure. Every Wednesday at 4 P.M., not a minute late, I go to the public library to watch him go through with the routine. I sit there—neither too far from nor too near him – contemplating his perfectly calculated scheme. This clockwork routine of his has become a source of an odd sort of thrill for me. This thrill intensifies when, on certain occasions, he looks at my direction to rest his eyes and almost catches me staring at him. My only source of relief in tense moments like this is the fact that we’re total strangers. Just random library users.

This state of affairs never bothered me until I started fantasizing about his hands. That particular Wednesday afternoon, he did something different. Something random. He must have been studying me these past few weeks, for, on more than one occasion, our eyes met and I saw an unmistakable curve in the corners of his lips. I remember smiling back, my mind in total chaos. It was, indeed, so unlike him to notice me, let alone, smile at me. But he did smile at me. For one insane moment, I saw him lift his hand and he made a gesture that resembled a wave. And, for the very first time, I became aware of this obscure, indefinable obsession: his hands... his huge, manly hands.

The thought of being touched by those hands keeps me up many nights and haunts me in my dreams. I decided this has got to stop, so I try to break the habit of going to the public library. But I find it more and more difficult to sleep at night. Focusing on a task becomes a real struggle, as my mind keeps playing back the motions of his hands—how those fingers turn the pages of his book, how he holds his pen, how he rubs his palms together. Tormented by this odd obsession, I considered seeing a therapist.


The psychotherapist was recommended by a college friend who underwent therapy for obsessive-compulsive disorder. Although I haven’t met him, I have heard of his renown as a U.S.-trained specialist handling difficult cases from credible sources. I just know I need this kind of professional help.

I am half an hour too early for my appointment, so the receptionist shows me to the clinic’s waiting lounge-- a cozy, immaculate little nook adjacent to the therapist’s office. It is the cleanest, most flawless place I’ve ever been to. The occupant of this doctor’s office must be taking the words “order” and “hygiene” very seriously. Every object is classified, from the reading materials (entertainment magazines, professional journals, etc.) to the trash bins (biodegradable, non-biodegradable). The room reeks of Lysol. If I wasn’t told this therapist is a “he,” I would’ve been convinced I would be seeing a thirty-something control-freak, anal retentive female shrink.

“Miss, he’s ready to see you. You may come in when you’re ready,” rings the receptionist’s voice, jolting me out of my idle musings.

The therapist sits snugly in his wing chair next to the doctor’s long seat. As I enter his office, he arranges his pens in his pen organizer. He looks up and smiles—a knowing smile-- at me. Then, he takes out a bottle of hand sanitizer from a pouch, slathers his hands with a copious amount of it, and rubs them together fiercely, never taking his eyes off me.

“How come you never drop by the public library anymore?” he asks.#