I don't mean like that time my mom went to Hardee's for breakfast with her old lady friends, and one of them swore that every man in the place was undressing her with his eyes.
I don't mean like when you sit in your family room that might have been called a rumpus room back in the fifties if the house had existed way back then, and get up to walk to your mailbox, and find three bags of hedgeapples on your porch.
I don't mean like that time my youngest future stepson finished eating a Halloween Dum Dum at the tender age of five, and jabbed the stick down into the soil of his father's large potted plant, then nearly jumped out of his skin when I asked, "Are you supposed to do that?"
I don't mean like when your apartment has a peephole that is just a hollow tube with no lenses, and your strip of masking tape has dried up and fallen off the inside of the door.
I don't mean like that incident when you were working overtime at your unemployment office job near the Bevo Mill, filing happily to your heart's content, earning an hour of extra pay approved by Bob, you supervisor, while waiting for your husband to get off work from his butcher-product-producing job at Vandeventer and Tower Grove, and looked up and saw a man with his face cupped in his hands and pressed against one of the full-length windows.
I don't even mean like the time you were all alone in a high school gym and the doors to a storage room opened by themselves, revealing a short white figure in the recesses of the dark interior.
I mean like when you're sitting at your desk in your classroom, happier than a pig in excrement, plugging away at your busywork while your students take a test, and just...have...that...somebody's-watching-me feeling. Because looking over your shoulder is this:
Thank goodness he was on the outside of the glass. What next? Some crazy Hunger Games mutation sent to track my every move?
Universe, I shake my fist at you and your conspiratory ways!