-1Disclaimer I own very little, especially not CSI NY, wish I did though…

Notes Thank you for all the reviews of my previous work. This is somewhat creepy, bit of a psychological thriller, hopefully. Please let me know what you think. Written in the first person, but I must just stress, NOT me! I don't work in a diner : )

Watching - Chapter One

The door opens. I look up and my heart beats wildly, heat rises to my cheeks. He walks into the room slowly, nods at the detective with glasses who brought me in here. With a sigh he pulls the chair out from under the table and sits in front of me.

I'm sitting across from him. So close I can see each line of his skin and hear him breathe. Slow breaths as if it hurts. The other detective stays standing against the wall. He looks at me, but I don't look back. He is nothing to me.

I smile at neither of them, just to myself. In my mind I write the scene, my words. They have taken my pen and notebook but it doesn't matter. I have words in my head. Words. I wait for him to speak. He lays his hands on the table, palms down, fingers towards me. I can almost touch his skin. I breathe.

He looks at me. I feel it and my eyes dart up to his, and away again. Something in those eyes I cannot look at yet. I lay one hand on the table and with the other twist a strand of hair through my fingers, risk another glance at him. His eyes almost burn me. Because there is sadness in them, a terrible sadness. At what I have done. My heart leaps and I look down again, with another smile.

He speaks one word, "Why?"

Why? Why not? How can I tell him when the words and the reasons are all spinning round in my head? So I say nothing.

"Why?"

This time the word rings out. His hands are white, pressed down hard on the table. Out of the corner of my eye I see the other detective take a step forward.

My eyes lock with the man sitting opposite me. He is fascinating to watch. I can see the pulse in his temple and the lines on his forehead. The clock ticks. His hand twitches. The words stop spinning and I say to him, "Because I wanted to."

………………………………...

I wanted to and I did. Perhaps I will tell him. The story is in my head. I live, I write, I work. I sit alone in my apartment and I watch and write. I work in a diner and I watch and write. One day I see him walking past along the street. He glances through the window and his eyes catch mine. He smiles and walks on. It is a Tuesday, a quarter after twelve. I remember the time and write it down.

It is another week before I see him again, a week and a day. Wednesday, the clock shows twenty minutes past three. Holding my breath, I wait for him to look in again. Only this time he doesn't. He is not alone this time, someone walks alongside him and he is looking at her, not me. He says something and she laughs. He does not look at me.

That night I sit in my apartment. Everything is still. The air is cold. Clocks tick in the velvet dusk and that is the only sound until I begin to write. Words. No one sees them. Ticking clocks. Who is she? Why is she with him? Why didn't he look at me?

Two weeks pass. Winter lays itself across the city, spreads frost and cold, white air through the streets. I watch the street every day and continue to serve coffee and bagels, smiling a plastic smile at my customers. They don't matter. I don't care about them. They spin around me like dust; blowing in through the door and out again as the time ticks by. Fading into the grey light. I see no colour. I wait to see his face.

The first Thursday of December. The air is as cold and clear as diamonds and the sun slices down through the buildings. He walks through the sunlight, through the door. His face is alive. He walks over and I smile truly.

He orders black coffee and I take it over to him, place it in front of him. He thanks me and I memorise the sound of his voice. He takes off his coat and puts it next to him. I wait behind the counter. I watch him. He is the colour in a faded scene. The door opens and a woman enters. She walks straight over to him and speaks his name. Now I know his name. Mac. I like the sound and keep it safe in my head. I say it to myself.

He looks up at her and his eyes are bright. They stay on her as she sits down opposite him. The light falls through the window onto his face, but some of it catches in her hair. I run my hands through my hair, long and black. He asks her a question and gives me her name. Stella. I will remember that too.

She tells him something I cannot hear. She stands up. He takes a long pull of coffee, stands also and picks up his coat. Leaves the nearly full cup on the table where I will pick it up from, and walks to the counter. She waits by the door. He smiles apologetically at me as he leaves a tip. It is more than he needs to. They leave together. Her fault. But I have her name now. I watch them walk away.

Chapter two coming very soon. Please let me know what you think, good or bad?