After seeing her that day, I knew that the time had come. I had already told my girlfriend that I was watching this girl at school, and she answered with a somewhat disinterested, "Oh. Have you talked to her?"

What was I supposed to say? "Hello. You don't know me, but I have been watching you for some time now. Would you like to meet me, or shall I continue following you?" Maybe, "Hello. How do you spell your name? My computer and I have been having a fight as to whether it has one or two 'e's."

No. I don't think so.

People get to meet each other in a variety of ways. Usually, I get to meet people either because fate forces me to work with them for some reason or one of my friends introduces me to one of his friends. I usually trust fate to form my lasting bonds. Sometimes, fate needs a little kick in the rear, though.

Some people can just walk up to someone, introduce themselves, and make a friend. I can't even pull that off when I'm the one being introduced. I do have my own alternative lifestyle which I wouldn't force on everyone, and I can't even recommend for everyone.

I try stalking.

Now that I've got your attention, I'll explain.

I had been watching her for a while. I knew what dorm she lived in, for example, and I knew some of the places she went to during the day. I figured the best bet was to meet her at her front door.

I just happened to be heading to the same dorm as her that night. Coincidence, I assure you, and I just happened to be waiting in the lobby when she got there. (There are some benefits to having a comfortable stride somewhat greater than the average bears.) When she got on the elevator, it just happened to be the same one that she was getting on, and when she pressed her floor, I noted what she pressed and pressed the lighted circle after her, before burying my nose in a surprisingly interesting book.

I rather suspect she thought that was a little suspicious, but what is she going to do? Accuse me of stalking her? (She can't have me arrested unless I do it twice.)

I got off at the same floor as her, and just happened to pick the doorway of her room to lean against to continue the fascinating article in whatever magazine someone had left behind in the lobby before I got there. I hope they left it behind, that is. Otherwise, for all I know, they are down there now still searching for where that wandering magazine might have gone. Humorous to think, yes, but I'd still hate to be responsible for it.

Anyway, leaning there with my big green bag banging nonchalantly against her door beside where I had nonchalantly rushed -- probably almost sending her flying down the hall in the process -- she had little choice but to notice me. In her delightful, quiet, small voice, she said: "Can I help you?"

(Sarcasm like that hurts. Really it does. The pain a stalker must go through.)

"No, I'm just standing here reading this article."

"Quite a long article to fit on one page."

"Yes, well, uh, it is a very information rich source. You should read it."

"What's it about?"

"Um, I dunno."

"Are you stalking me?"

With a piercing and self-confident glare, I stared sheepishly at my feet. With all the prideful wrath I could summon, I glanced shiftily at a fascinating spot somewhere past her and to the left.

"Get out of my way before I call the cops."

The secret to stalking is to keep them always guessing, or better yet, surprise so much they can't even guess. I'd pretty much fucked that up, by this point. Stupid, I may be. Unprepared? Don't bet your sweet bippy quite yet.

"Aren't you going to invite me in for a drink?"

Stalking is pretty much a hit or miss kind of endeavor. Guess wrong, and, well, you can move on to another girl, but after a while I expect the police would consider you a problem. Take them by surprise, though, and you stand a bit of a chance. Before the indignant "What?!" I could see rising from her between beautiful and indignant breasts -- which I wished I could gaze at now, but I needed my self-confidence elsewhere, not to mention my blood supply -- I pulled out a bottle of wine from my green bag, carefully wrapped in a somewhat melted ice pack.

(Kids, don't try this at home. I imagine transporting alcohol if you are underage is a pretty naughty thing to do. The Boy Scouts taught me to be prepared, though, and sometimes the Boy Scouts have to win out over that little law thing.)

She began to laugh. That is a good sign. It wasn't hysterical and furious laughter. That is a better sign.

"I would have invited you in for a smoke, but I don't imagine twenty-third floor windows open too easily."

I stepped to the side, she pulled out her keys, and we went in.