That was her name. Beautiful, mysterious, untouchable.
He tried not to think of her. He tried to keep a train of thought that was at a safe distance from her. But it seemed hard. Impossible. Where he was grateful of having so much on his hands, receiving assignments, packing information, setting the scene, and exacting the mission, they were things he now went through them mindlessly, almost without any notable effort. They were always things that occupied the hands, but left the mind free to wonder. And it was bound to wonder about her, send its tendrils away and imagine where she was, what she was doing.
God knew he tried to quell it as soon it started, because it was not right. He was not exactly a man trained to lead a normal life along side his career, but there was always this sound in his head that told him that there was nothing normal about this any way. That as long as he kept his distance and didn’t contact her, all was good. He could have digested that just fine if only she was not there every where he looked, around every corner he took. If only he didn’t go up the mountain road every morning with his irrational hope to see her again. Just another chance, another sneak peek at the forever in her eyes.
There was no safe distance when it came to her. No escape.
Once he gave in to the temptation to be around her he could not get enough. He grew hungry to see her, every night bringing a new wave of longing to see her face, a single naughty curl of hair inflamed by a sun ray, the dusting of freckles across her face that was so cute when she smiled it nearly broke his heart.
Until the day he realized he was lying to himself in the long time he pretended to have ran into her by sheer accident, or checked the three branches of La Stella from afar and when he found her, he told himself that he honestly had nothing to do with that innocent, wonderful coincidence.
It took him by surprise, this obsession, something so foreign, so human. He was a man who had been rarely surprised in his life, but it slipped into his every thought, soaked through his pores. And he really did try to let it go, to forget about her, to deliberately put her in a far corner of his mind, and pray that she would recede and fade. But it seemed stronger than him. He couldn’t keep thoughts of her at bay, something always so maddeningly unexpected. There was nothing to help his case. When on an assassination, looking through his scope he sometimes saw her ghost walking across the circular vision, a distracting shadow, and during the hours of sleepless nights he imagined her there beside him or strolling outside the bedroom door.
And his desires were changing his thoughts, spicing them up.
One day he was back on a roof top in a posture of an assassin doing what assassins did best, only this time his only this time his sole tool was a binoculars. And it was then as he held it to his eyes, looking at her lengthily, her body strong and smooth going through the motions of Yoga in her living room– an arch of nimble spine, a wave from slender arm, a seductive curve of graceful neck– mindless and completely mesmerizing did the assassin became a stalker.
It was helpless. He was helpless…