To the Man Who Lives Below and to the Left of Me

Dear man who lives below and to the left:

Stop.

You know what I’m talking about.

You started doing it when my sister-in-law was here. She was at her car waiting for me, and as I crossed the parking lot I noticed you. You were at your car, right next to Andrea’s, with the tailgate up, pretending to mess with something. But I could tell you were actually watching her, through the smoky haze of your fat white cigarette. When I got in the car, she turned to me and asked, “Did you see that man? He was watching us!” So I’m not the only one who noticed.

When we got back, you were still there, waiting outside with your little dog. You stared unblinking from behind your glasses with the same cigarette hanging from your blubbery lips as we got out of the car and walked down the sidewalk straight towards you. Andrea said “Hi,” because we were a few feet away and it was getting awkward, and you responded. We climbed the stairs to our apartment, and as I fumbled with the keys, I glanced down at you. Yep, you were still watching us. You looked away. I looked away. I looked back. You were watching us again. You looked away. I kept watching. Sure enough, you glanced back AGAIN.

I told my hubby about you. My description was not flattering; you are a fat man with a bald head and beady eyes, a red flabby face and glasses. My hubby got to see you for himself later that evening when we returned from shopping, because you were sitting outside on your porch, smoking. You didn’t say hi this time, but you watched us.

My hubby says you ignore him when he sees you. I thought I was done with you, but yesterday you were back to it. After a friend dropped me off, I was walking down the sidewalk to the stairs, and when I got close to your patio, you popped out the door and stood there staring at me, with a freshly lit fat cigarette barely hanging in your mouth. You stared, and I stared back. I said hi, and you said hi. I went up stairs, went inside, and locked the door behind me. Then I got out my pepper spray key chain.

Today, I needed to check the mail, so I carried my keys with the pepper spray attached. I walked in full view of your apartment, cupping the keys in my hand, but allowing the pepper spray to dangle in plain view. You deigned not to make an appearance. I switched hands on my way back, so that you could still see my trusty little black can, and once again, you failed to grace me with your attentive presence.

But guess what, little fat man. I have an even better weapon, and if you make one move, you’re not going to like it. It’s called a “Husband,” “Hubby,” or “Dear,” for short. And it’s 6’1, 200+ lbs. of protective instincts.

Don’t make me unleash the wrath of the “Hubby.” You won’t like it, I assure you.

Sincerely yours,
Mrs. Idon’tlikebeingwatched