by Helen Osterman
Someone is following me. I can feel it. I see a blue Camry drive by the house too many times to be coincidence. Am I getting paranoid?
Wherever I go, he’s there: to the park with my daughter, in the hospital parking lot where I work.
He approaches me with his lies, his fantasies, and insane letters of love.
Even though I carry a can of pepper spray, I feel like a small rabbit hiding from a hawk.