by BobMathews
Maggie shot them the bird. Then she dusted off her boots, unlocked her door, and went inside. She made sure to bring the baseball bat in with her.
Maggie bypassed the wine this time, reaching into the back of the pantry for a dusty old half-drunk bottle of Macallan single-malt scotch. She poured several fingers and drank it down in one gulp, feeling the slow bloom of fire spread pleasurably in her belly. Then she stuck the remnants of the previous night’s pizza in the oven to let it warm and took the scotch bottle with her to the kitchen window. She kept her shoes on, kept the bat near to hand. It made her feel safer. So did the scotch. She poured herself another drink and waited, peering through the blinds at the street below.
It wasn’t quite dark yet. Traffic was light on the block, and Maggie didn’t see anyone she knew. When the pizza was warm, she ate it standing up at the window. She had another scotch, and another. When it was nine p.m., she went to bed.
Sleep wouldn’t come, though Maggie waited for it like a maiden waiting for a wayward lover. When she heard the mail slot in her apartment door click open, she sat bolt upright, pulling the covers to her chin. There was no further sound. Maggie waited in bed, straining her ears to hear, but there was nothing. She slithered out of bed and groped for the Louisville Slugger, found its solid round heft, and moved into the living room with the bat cocked back by her ear, ready for a home-run swing.
Maggie flicked on the light, gripped the bat tighter. On the floor in front of the apartment door was a light blue envelope, about the size of a thank-you card. Maggie approached the door cautiously, squatted, and snagged the note by one corner. She stood again and moved away from the door before tearing the envelope open and reading it.
I know it was you.
And then the mail slot clicked open again and Maggie saw a finger slide along the wooden door. She didn’t give herself time to think—she rushed forward and swung the bat, as hard as she could at that questing, grasping finger. The Louisville Slugger swung home with a satisfying crunch, and a scream erupted from the other side of the door. Maggie leapt forward to stare out the peephole, but the man—and it was a man—was already trucking down the hallway, his back to her. She couldn’t get a good look.
Maggie took the bat to bed with her, and this time she slept easy. The ride to work was a breeze. This time, she wore a black skirt that came just above her knees, a shell-pink top, and black sling-back heels. Her makeup was understated, as it always was for work. The Louisville Slugger made the trip, too, sitting right next to her on the passenger seat. In the building, Maggie took the elevator. She didn’t feel the need to march in this time.
Don was already in his office. Of course he was. Maggie didn’t care. She banged the door open without knocking and smiled at him.
“Can you sign Truman’s reports?” she asked. “I need to get them into the system this morning.”
Don didn’t say anything. He just glared up at her. His arms were hidden underneath his desk. When Maggie saw that, her smile widened into a grin.
“What’s the matter, Don? Cat got your tongue?”
“Get out,” he said. “Get out of my office, right now.”
Instead, Maggie dropped into the same chair she’d sat in when Don called her into his office earlier in the week. She crossed her arms over her chest and leveled her gaze at him.
“I said get out. Right now, if you still want to have a job here tomorrow.”
Maggie shook her head.
“I don’t think so, Don. I’m not gonna leave until you show me your hands. You wanna do that now, or do you want to wait until I have someone from HR make you show me?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Show you my hands? Why?”
Maggie didn’t say anything, and eventually Don wound down like an old music box. The silence between them was charged like the space between thunderclouds, each waiting for the other to make a move before the storm began.
Finally, Maggie stood up.
“Don’t worry about it, Don,” she said. “I’ll have HR check it out. Your smashed finger left a little blood at my place last night. But I thought you’d want to have this back.”
Maggie reached behind her waist and pulled out the folded piece of blue notepaper. She tossed it on Don’s desk, and then turned on one heel and walked to the door.
“You can think whatever you want about me, you can believe that girl in the video was me, and there’s nothing I can do about it,” Maggie said. “But Don, I know you’re stalking me. Listen to me: I know it was you.”
Maggie flipped her hair as she walked toward the phone on her desk. “The difference between us is that I can prove it.”
