Tell her, he told himself. Tell her before it's too late. From a scuffed-over, leather-upholstered chair near the front window, he watched her. She turned the crank on the machine. Or knob. It made a screeching sound. On the counter she banged something hard. Again.
He looked around. No one noticed.
She swiped at the counter, then her hair. She was wearing some kind of kerchief. That's not right, he thought. And scrambled for it, what do they call it: This pleased him.
Haltingly, he crept forward. Praying no one would notice him, because they might stop him before he got to her. People were always stopping him.
Then she spotted him. He was not a tall man, but she could see him. Like she knew, he thought. Knew he had come for her.
She made a little sound, like a question, without speaking. It sounded like "Him," with a burst of air out her nose. He realized it was his cue to speak.
"Molly," he said. "I'm so lonely."