Nafeo skips to the bubble tea shop. It is the beginning of fall, and he couldn’t be more excited to get out of his 6pm Classical English class. It’s not his favorite thing about English, but he’s come to terms with it. Feeling the evening breeze brush over his knit sweater, Nafeo stops at the destination and enters the shop with glee.. He doesn’t even glance at the “ring the bell when you’re ready to order” sign right under the bell—he’s done this too many times to bother reading the lamented mini sheet of paper. A young familiar woman approaches the counter.
“Hey, Nafeo! How are you? Are you going to get the regular brown sugar milk tea with tapioca pearls?”
the server perfectly recites Nafeo’s order.
“Hey Theresa, yes it will be just that. I’m doing good, just ready to get back home to Montrea, that’s all,” Nafeo replies.
Theresa leaves the counter and hurries to make Nafeo’s drink. Nafeo loves the bubble, but he doesn’t like to hang out for too long. His wife wouldn’t like him to divert from his usual schedule: teaching from 8am to 3pm and taking classes from 4pm to 6pm. Nafeo’s surprised she lets him stop for 30 minutes to grab the drink and drive home. Theresa hands him the drink with “Nafeo” written in black sharpie on the transparent cup.
On the drive home, Nafeo is hesitant to pull his cream slug bug into the parking garage. He already had
loads of papers and assignments to get to—but this is the least of his worries. The person who occupies his mind is his wife: Montrea Allard.
Nafeo parks his car into the garage and slips out of his mocha brown sambas. The door chimes as he enters the kitchen and into the living room. He spots Montrea on their blue-gray loveseat. The TV plays true-crime documentaries of various horrible serial killers. Each episode covers a different serial killer and their heinous crimes. Nafeo never understood why she found any of it engaging. All it shows is sick people killing innocent, pure human beings. Sometimes he wonders if he will appear in one of the episodes—watching his wife so engrossed into it gives him chills.
Tonight, the show was covering the story of a stalker wife haunting her husband to death. The wife,
despite the husband having a restraining order against her, continued to lurk around his home. The husband could feel her presence from outside his windows; looking to the window, he would find a pair of eyes darted at him. At her best, the wife would sneak into the husband’s place and cook a steak dinner. She would make sure that he knew that she was there by leaving a napkin written in blood, “Is the steak tender?” Soon enough, the husband couldn’t take it anymore and ended his life just outside that haunted house.
Little did Nafeo know, Montrea was plotting something of the sort. The episode only gave her the push
to put it into action. She was going to haunt but not with a steak dinner, but with the bubble tea cashier: Theresa. Every time she sees that black sharpie “Nafeo” on his sweet taupe drink, it’s the perfect opportunity to accuse him of cheating on her. Montrea knows well that he wouldn’t dare cheat on her;. however, the closeness between the two has her in doubts. The black “Nafeo” that touches the clear cup is already too close by her standards. The handwriting never changes. Poor Theresa, who knew she was going to indirectly be the reason for Montrea’s shenanigans.
The following evening Nafeo does the usual: grabs his bubble tea and parks his car into their parking
garage. He enters the house expecting to find Montrea watching her creepy true-crime documentaries. Instead, Nafeo finds her watching a lighter…show? He couldn’t quite make out what it was. Nafeo inched closer to the big screen TV. The screen shows a counter with two people. The two are wrapping their equipment to close shop for the day.
Nafeo, careful, confronts Montrea, “Hey what are you watching? You usually have on true-crime.”
“Well why don’t you take a closer look and tell me what I’m watching,” Montrea hollers.
Weirded out, Nafeo does what’s asked of him. He comes closer to her view and inspects the screen. His eyes find themselves directly on that bell with the laminated “ring when you’re ready to order.” Suddenly, a woman’s voice comes off of the screen. Why is it so familiar? Nafeo asks himself millions of questions—trying to deny the truth: that woman is Theresa. Montrea is watching her in her shop.
“Wh-why do you have this footage?” Nafeo stutters.
“What is it that you like so much about that girl? Oh yes, what is her name? Theresa? It’s funny how she
didn’t even need to ask for your order—she’s got it all memorized. The classic brown sugar milk tea with tapioca pearls. It’s a classic for her, yet I didn’t—”
“What are you trying to imply?” Nafeo interrupts.
Montrea, ready to engulf him, continues: “Am I exposing you? Is there something going on here? Clearly, this footage has you choked up. Did I unravel an unexpected truth here?”
“No, no that’s not it. You know I go there everyday to grab my drink.”
Montrea, worked up, snatches the drink out of his hand and throws it into Nafeo’s face. The ice clanks off the sides of the cup as the taupe liquid slaps his face—black orbs following the ice to the ground. Montrea can feel Nafeo freeze up after the attack. He is under her finger, just the way she planned him to be. He can’t even bring words to his mouth—any more words could bring more than just a drink to the face.
“How does it taste now, huh? Is it that good that you need to go to the same shop, same hour, and be
served by the same girl for you to be content? Does it give you butterflies while you watch her pour that muddy liquid you love so much?” Montrea yells.
Nafeo tries to walk away from the situation but Montrea grabs the collar of his hoodie. She lifts him up so Nafeo’s feet are dangling, no longer touching the ground.
“What, what are you doing? Put me down. I won’t go to the shop, just leave me alone,” Nafeo cries.
Montrea decides that’s not enough for her. She pulls him down, pushes him against the wall, wraps her
hands around his neck, and pushes.
“How can I be so sure you mean that? After all, it is your favorite—let alone your prized drink,” Montrea pushes harder.
Almost impossibly, Nafeo manages to push out “What can I do…just stop……please.”
“Beg. On your knees, now,” Montrea demands.
She lets go of his neck and he falls to the floor. Landing on his knees, he begs. Montrea chuckles, what a
pathetic sight, she thinks. She takes her phone out of her back pocket and opens up her camera app. She clicks a picture and gives a kick before she leaves. Nafeo painfully slams to the ground from the force.
Struggling, Nafeo forces himself up. He bolts to the door, grabs his keys, jumps into his car, and inputs
directions for the police station. He has never been to a station before, let alone expected to be going to one. Speeding, beads of sweat trickle down his face. His flight response leaves him unaware of where he is until the GPS directs him to turn to the right into the parking lot. Nafeo enters the station and frantically runs to an officer in sight.
He pulls an officer to tell him the events: “I-I was coming back home and she was watching something
and then she started strangling me—”
“You have to speak slower, I can’t make out what you are trying to say. Let’s take a seat and you cool off
for a few minutes.”
The officer redirects Nafeo to a seat and gives him a few minutes to breathe. These minutes were a vital
time, however. Montrea realized what Nafeo was doing and followed suit in her own white minivan. As she pulls into the parking lot, she confirms it’s the right station when she spots an ivory slug bug. She parks her car and exits, slamming the door behind her. With each step she takes, Nafeo tells more of the events that conspired. Montrea reaches the door and opens it—thrilled.
Nafeo continues informing the officer. Just as the officer gets a better understanding, he hears the door.
In comes the woman the frightened man in front of him is describing. Nafeo notices his eyes avert from him and turns to look back. There stood Montrea, predator-like. Nafeo impulsively snatches the pistol from the officer’s uniform. He aims it at Montrea’s chest.
“C’mon little guy, shoot me. You already have the gun in your hand, just fire,” she tempts him.
Nafeo clenches the gun even harder. Montrea’s presence causes all motion and commotion to silence.
She walks up to Nafeo, taking her time. She approaches him and wraps her hands around his. Turning
the pistol, she places it on the left side of her chest. Her finger travels to the trigger where Nafeo’s finger lies, motionless.
“Shoot me. You came all this way to get rid of me, why don’t you just do it for once and for all? Oh wait,
you can’t,” Montrea continues tempting Nafeo.
“Get away from me!” Nafeo demands.
“Oh! This is new for you, Nafeo. What would happen if I said no, huh?” Montrea pushes forward, the
barrel of the gun digging into her skin as Nafeo quivers. “What would you–”
Bang! Montrea falls, a blood splatter shoots toward Nafeo. She collapses to the ground. The gun slips out of Nafeo’s hands, bloody and red.
The officer and Nafeo look at one another, then down at the desk. At the bottom of the paper lies a red
splatter.
Restraining order against Montrea Allard:
Nafeo Allard