Over 20 times he’d called. More than 100 text messages he’d sent. His desperate tantrums had Sophie’s phone buzzing, beeping like a cardiac patient.

Wouldn’t he just go away?

She’d deleted him. But ... he’d returned ... A voice from her graveyard of ghosted guys ... His every text message landing like kicks to the cunt ... clawing ... spectral hands thrusting up through the dirt...

And on this chilly fall night, he was here. Outside her apartment. In the slimy rain. Her jilted ex pacing the parking lot. His presence ghastly, cadaverous ... menacing as a shark in the water...

In the gathering tempest her ex appeared ringed in a nimbus of rage. Then he froze in place, lifted his gaze, and lasered his eyes at her as she stood staring at him from between her front room’s blinds. Then he thrust his phone into the air and started playing their favorite song: “Sweet but Psycho.”

They’d both loved that song. They’d sung it in unison. Danced to it together. Before, the song seemed so sweet. But now, as she listened to its distant, tinny squeal, from the speakers of his smartphone, it wasn’t cute. Or sweet. At all. It was frightening, sinister ... To her, it sounded worse than nails scratching a blackboard ... Sounded even worse than Ed Sheeran...

Mike the Mohawk Guy, he wasn’t sweet, in any way.

He was a FUCKING PSYCHO!

Watching the stalker-y scene develop, Sophie pondered her options. Should she:

A) call the cops

B) go out there with a canister of mace and blast the mohawk fucker in the face

Part of her wanted to call the cops. Over 100 texts in three days must be against the law...

But part of her wanted vengeance. She’d tired of his philandering. She’d seen the girls’ texts on his phone, and his friends, on social media, almost every one of them was female. Did he think she was stupid? That she wouldn’t notice?

And why was he so surprised when she’d given him the boot?

He had perfect facial structure and a hard body that’d make Michelangelo proud. He could so easily find another girl.

But instead of moving on, he’d begged her to “give it another chance.” He’d actually cried too. A grown man. A grown man, a grown man with a beard, crying like a baby. A 35-year-old, bearded man sniveling and high-pitched whining on the phone, his voice cracking.

To her, a grown man crying, unless extenuating circumstances were at play, might be the cringiest thing ever ... God, that might be even worse than loudly farting in front of your lover...

Like, just when she heard that first crack of his voice, that squeaky “urmph” when he started to cry, just ... ugh...

She thought he sounded like such a bitch...

Facts: they’d only been together for three months. Three months. She wasn’t that emotionally invested. And she’d even cringed when he’d said, “I love you.”

Three months in and he “loved” her? This guy with a mohawk? This guy who’d wear skinny jeans, rumpled hockey jerseys and corny T-shirts saying things like, “I’m FBI: Female Body Inspector.” Or: “I’m not gay, but $20 is $20.”

None of it made sense. She found him something of an enigma too. Although he always had money, he was ambiguous about his work. He’d prevaricate. Never really say what he did. He’d mentioned “crypto” and an online business, but when she’d asked for a link to his business’s site, he told her the site was “under construction” and most of his work was “conducted through email.”

Email? Who the fuck still emails? People still using AOL and 56K dial-up modems? No one sends emails these days, except spammers and “princes” in Nigeria.

Hmm ... Maybe that was it. He could be a sketchy, dirty scammer, swindling lonely elderly out of their retirement cash. Ugh, she quivered in revulsion. Or maybe he was a drug dealer. What if he sold fentanyl? Oh, that’d be so creepy ... If, like, it was him who killed Prince...

Whoever and whatever he was, his mohawk head stayed circling the parking lot ... Like a bloodthirsty shark...

Fortunately, though, he’d lowered the phone. Quit the retro, 1980s movie antics. But he lingered, lowered his phone to his side, like a gun to the holster. Her heart then skipped a beat when he contorted his pale, puffy face and she saw him pull open the passenger door to his black Honda Civic, reach inside the car.

Sophie stepped back from behind the blinds, breathing heavily, terror raising goosebumps along her arms, cold fear creeping through her joints and bones. Then she started praying he wouldn’t break out a machine gun, go Columbine.

Inching back, she prepared to run and dive into the bathroom. Jump in the bathtub as if a tornado were coming. But then she sighed in relief, her shoulders slumping as he produced a big, gaudy bouquet. Then he jerked the red roses into the sky. Then he put on a pathetic smile and dropped down to one knee.

Like, oh my God ... Just ... What the actual fuck?

Sophie thought that this might be the Colin Kaepernick of stalking.

Sophie just wanted to be done. Done with him. She quickly shuffled away from the window, scooped up her phone from the kitchenette counter and stabbed a finger at the phone’s side.

She pictured her fingers as knives. Her hand like Freddy Krueger’s. Her fingers slashing Mohawk Guy’s throat. Sticky blasts of his warm blood splashing over her, like hot water from a showerhead. Her beaming, radiant as a smiley happy version of Carrie.

But the device didn’t bleed. It just died a silent death. Went blank. And hanging her head down at its empty screen, Sophie wished she could do the same thing to Mohawk Mike. Just press a button and have him go away.

Sophie’s roommate sat motionless in the living room. The girl with the pink teddy bear ear buns, rooted to their U-shaped sofa. The girl glued, as always, to her phone’s phosphorescent force. Throughout the entire ordeal her roommate hadn’t lifted her gaze or said a word. Probably didn’t even notice. She and Sophie mostly communicated by text messages.

For a second, Sophie contemplated plopping down next to her roommate, on the sofa, ranting about Mohawk Guy. But seeing the discomfiting inelasticity of her roommate’s face, her unblinking gaze, the raccoon circles under her roommate’s eyes, Sophie decided she’d rather rant online instead.