The ringing of my phone wakes me from a sound sleep and I stir aimless, confused for a minute as I struggle from the realm of Morpheus and re-enter the waking world. It is almost three in the morning. The number is blocked, nothing but zeros, but I assume it might be an emergency so I answer.
There is a silence and then a voice. It was no one I recognized by voice alone.
"I saw you today," the deep, masculine voice begins, "I saw you in the park eating your lunch," the voice sounded very strong, certain, "you wore a beautiful turquoise blouse."
"Who is this," I stammer my dazed response.
"I have been watching you."
I hang up. Shaken and afraid I turn on the lights although I am on the sixteenth floor, and my building has both electronic security and an actual doorman. The phone can call up the unblinking view from security cameras at the front door, in the lobby, down my hallway and at my door. Nevertheless I look out the window into the dark and search for the stranger in vain. I turn out the light in my bedroom so I can see better in the dark.
"Why is he calling me?" I think. Quickly I slip into my robe. "Who is he?" I think of all the usual questions in a tumble of broken thoughts.
The phones in the building are not public, and my home number is unpublished. Few people have it and it was explained that I should never get any but a call I desire since you need a code to do more than leave a message.
"How did he get my phone number," I ask myself as I think.
Again I look out the window. Far in the distance below, passing under the light on the sidewalk I think I see a man, or the shadowy figure of a man, or just my eyes playing tricks on me. But I know that I cannot see anyone.
My senses unite in my mind to obsess in gymnophoria, my flesh literally crawling under my now seemingly too thin robe. Frightened, I vow never to wear that blouse again. At the window, in the dark, my hand clutches my robe tighter closed, I search again but nothing is not in sight. Slowly I convince myself to go back to sleep. I leave all my other lights on.
The next day I eat at my desk and wear a dark nondescript blouse. I try to forget about the call. I do not think of that voice and the episode fades into a sort of nightmare I slowly forget. Then night comes and I fall asleep, again the phone rings and I see the null number:
"You have such long beautiful hair," he says; "you should wear it down."
Scared, I hang up. I fear he will call back but the phone does not ring. This time I stay in bed, I do not turn on the lights, my knees drawn to my chest, my back to the pillows, hiding under the covers like a little girl who has a monster in her closet. I am angry that I went to bed in the nude. I worry he sees me like that. My clock dutifully ticks away the time, an hour passes, and as another begins I finally fall back asleep.
I wake up and it is raining. The big drops pelt the windows and the entire city is shaded in gray. I hear no thunder, I see no lightning, even the wind seems still, but the rain falls steadily, sheeting on my windows and morphing the outside world into something Dali must have seen when he set himself to paint visions of the world.
Today I decide to dress more conservatively, a pair of pants and a smart looking matching jacket with large brass buttons. Decadently I enjoy wearing sexy lingerie under my more conservative work attire, but today I wear pantyhose and a slip and a bra with more padding that might lift and enlarge my breasts but hides the tips and shapes me less obvious I hope.
Bundled against the rain, as well as the unseen watcher, I wear a raincoat and take my umbrella. I take a cab to work and get out on the next block over. I am distracted all day, beginning as soon as I step out of the cab and steal a glance all around, thinking I might catch a stalker. I see no one in particular, most have their faces down, eyes on the sidewalk, their hair is wet, I see no faces today, and I do not catch any eyes looking.
I wore my hair loose because of the rain. My hair gets a little wet and I think I must fix it when I get to work. My glass are hidden in my jacket pocket in their case, I have perfect sight but wear them to look more sophisticated and to look as if I am smarter because I read a lot. I try to laugh at myself. My work expects us to dress conservatively, but fashionably, as a receptionist I am expected to look very pretty, but it pays well and as a premier fashion magazine, every job there is entrée to that glamorous industry.
I walk past the Rockefeller Center complex toward my building. Above me looms the dark bronze statue of Atlas. I studied architecture in college and enjoyed it. Atlas is perched over Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, looming over the street beyond along with the high buildings, a broad slab of concrete, an immense doorway, the art deco rectangular windows, all a monument to the engineering wonders of the 1930s. Atlas holds an abstract sculpture of the heavens on his shoulders. He holds more than just the world in New York it seems.
His eyes are blank but his gleaming wet bronze muscles look as if they actually flex with the effort of supporting his burden on his broad back. Today I do not see it or even think of it as I scurry past in the rain. But now I recall how I still believe that a man will come and lift me like Atlas has lifted that globe, carry me away as the brigand steals his bride, support my world, lifting me and never putting me back down. I am not yet twenty-three and I am still alone in New York, beautiful, but just another small town girl pursuing happiness like we chase our dreams, hoping they are here in all this frenzy.
The next night I lie in bed waiting, too afraid to sleep as I anticipate his call. I ate very little. I am not hungry. My butterflies turn in my belly nervously.
"Perhaps he will not call," I tell myself. "What if he does," I ask myself in thought. I find a book and I curl under my covers in my pajamas, cute cotton bottoms and a pretty top, I button all the buttons and I tie the string securely. Only a reading light betrays I am home, but I have drawn every curtain tight. No one could see me I hoped. Then the phone rings and I decide to answer it.
"On Saturday your legs were bare," he says flattering, "you have beautiful legs."
"Stop it," I say angrily and I hang up the phone, slamming it in its cradle.
I do have beautiful legs. They are long and I still tan. I am from Colorado, a small town near the mountains, and I grew up on an orchard where it was cold in the winter. I love the sun and how I feel when I am under it, even artificially, tanning my skin bronze I feel very healthy and no longer cold. And I run and work out, I was a high school athlete, I do yoga and my legs are very well toned.
Of course I know men gaze at my legs and I enjoy their gazing. I often try not to wear hosiery and go out with my legs bare so they can be seen. And I often fantasize about running nude in the park in the summer. Soon there will be a group of people, women included, who run nude through the park near mid-July. I have watched and I have hoped to be so courageous as to bare all and go for such a run.
Before college I was a dancer until I broke an ankle, so I still like to have lightness in my step and use my legs to dance me through the world. When I walk I imagine how I am on stage. The looks please me, dangerously they stir me and I try to wear as short of a skirt as I may. I want to be seen, I need to be admired.
The phone rings and I answer: "I am calling the police," I use my most threatening tone.
There is silence. All I hear is my own breathing. Blood whirls in my ears as my heart thumps. There is no static, just silence for a second.
"I see your nipples when you run," he said as clear and calm as ever, "you have beautiful breasts."
I hang up very angry, and a little embarrassed. My throat goes dry and I imagine a lump there impossible to swallow. My heart speeds to a pounding pace. I feel my nipples now as hard as they can be. I cannot help but think of my breasts and also my legs again, how exposed I am in my running outfit, the hundreds of men who look as I run. I once dreamed that I ran with the bulls in Spain, but the bulls were men and I was naked, running free, they chased, I wanted them to catch me but I was too fast.
