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Stalking Vol 2: The Bridge of Reason


"Always focused on the negative," she said, shaking her head. "I’m saying that he was a gift
of the most beautiful kind—a Stalker’s projection sent to us specifically for this lesson. I touched
him to see if he was real," she tittered. "I know about projections, but I never recognized one
before now."
"Let’s find him," I said, turning around, "I want to meet a..."
"He’s not here anymore," Bonnie said, grasping my arm. "His job is done."
"What… he was a ghost?" I quipped sarcastically, looking for a Mariners cap bobbing down
the sidewalk.
"He was a gesture of Spirit and Spirit wastes nothing. He is no longer needed so he is no
longer here." Bonnie sniffled and said. "Your roaming mind had me take my eyes off where I
was walking, so that I could explain where you were heading in your apprenticeship, then you
ran into a stranger who had stopped to get his bearings. The event gave us all a direction."
"Directions from Davie Street to Robson, maybe."
"That man's contemplation was about a direction in life, and your lesson was to see the
underlying nature of an event—recognize your Minimal Chance as a direction to take—which
happened right away." She snapped her fingers. "The panhandler made it clear that you need
lessons concerning judgment, generosity, and appreciation. When you accept these, it'll change
the way you are going as well." She looked behind her. "It was too perfect to have been
administered by an average man."
"Generosity? I gave him almost half of my money," I protested.
"Half of your change," she corrected me, "and you did it to show yourself that you are
generous, otherwise why keep the other half when you still have five dollars?"
"Prudence."
"You are a miser," she said crisply.
"Come off it. I spend as much on you as I do on myself, even if it’s not so smart in the
moment."
"That's how you camouflage the underlying truth from yourself. You hold onto your last
dollar like a pauper to a prayer, regardless that you have no immediate need for it; you
camouflage your secret fear of poverty by equating angst with generosity."
"Did I ever hold out on you?" I said coolly, not bothering to unravel what she had said.
"You regularly decline to have a pastry with your coffee, or dessert after a meal." She
chuckled. "You’ve perspired when I thought about ordering one, and you become trite because it
adds to your split of the tab."
"Split?" I chuckled mirthlessly. "You might think about how we've been sharing costs for
the past few weeks—which," I quickly added, holding up my hand, "is fine. I appreciate that
you’ve done the same for me."
Bonnie’s expenses had shot up to cover her car insurance and son’s sporting goods/summer
wardrobe needs, which I knew had tapped out her monthly household account. At the same time,
my freelance work was flourishing, and I knew that she was in arrears with her power bill so I
had causally offered to help. She politely refused, saying only that it would work out. I believed
that she expected Josh to offer, which as far as I knew had not happened.
"You can't be afraid and appreciative at the same time," she replied, "and the momentum of
pettiness undeterred leads to cruelty." She bit her lower lip, looking at me expectantly.
Missing the head’s up, I said, "You can't convince me that twenty bucks would change
anyone's direction in life, other than getting two or three bottles."
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