Her life with others no longer interests him. He wants only her stalking beauty, her theatre of expressions. He wants the minute secret reflection between them, the depth of field minimal, their foreignness intimate like two pages of a closed book.
There is no joy in a life that is all information. There is no 'juice' to that kind of life. No sweetness, no color. Like trading a beautiful golden-ripe orange for a stalk of whithered broccoli.
How did you find me? If you hacked into the Club’s computer to look up my appointments - " “Whoa, I think you overestimate me, shitlord. Last time I checked all I did was be in the wrong place at the right time. I saw you and had to - †“Stalk me.†“ - delicately approach you. In a sideways manner. From behind. Without being seen at all. For ten minutes.
You're a stalker with hooves." "I am not! I followed her to the Big House and hid in a bush and watched the whole thing.
I think the very word stalking implies that you're not supposed to like it. Otherwise, it would be called 'fluffy harmless observation time'.
There’s a fine line between support and stalking and let’s all stay on the right side of that.