Ghoul

He stares at me from across the room, his gaze intense and unwavering. Does he know

how uncomfortable it makes me? How awkward it is to be around him in class or elsewhere on campus? How distracting it is to feel his eyes on me while I’m trying to listen to and process the lecture being delivered? I make eye contact and raise my eyebrows, hoping he will notice my quizzical expression and look away, but he only stares. It is an odd stare, too – not like the kind to which I am (sadly) accustomed, where it feels as if I am being mentally undressed. That kind of stare I could ignore. This one is different and, somehow, worse than obvious sexual objectification. The latter I can chalk up to immaturity and misogyny. This stare seems purposeful, as if he is attempting to decipher every letter and number and order of the two which make up my identity. I look away, confused, annoyed, and unnerved. I sigh deeply and look back, glaring angrily. I expect him to see my frustration, snap out of his apparent trance, and break his stare embarrassingly. He still stares, only now a wolfish grin tugs at the corners of his lips. It is wicked. His eyes twinkle with cruel satisfaction as they meet mine, and immediately, I know the truth.

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