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Night Spies

We are at After Hours at the Art Institute.

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(Continued from last week) My shy stalker wrote back a week after I sent him an e-mail telling him to reveal himself. He hadn't meant to offend me, he wrote; he just meant to be mysterious. He was hugely apologetic, sweet, and sincere--but he still refused to send a photo. I was intrigued, and we started to exchange e-mails. I started plugging his nickname into other services and found his photo, so now I knew what he looked like. In January I came here hoping to find him. I was here with my friends, and all of a sudden he walked by. As he was coming up the ramp by the Chagall windows, he saw me and stopped dead in his tracks. I smiled, he gingerly approached, and I said, "You're my stalker?" He said, "Yes, I'm your stalker." We started to talk, and I asked him to join me for dinner. We came up to my place afterward and I said, "I'm dying to kiss you." He said shyly, "OK," and we made out on my couch like two horny teenagers. We're still dating and having fun. I tease him about being my stalker. This is the first time in the history of stalking stories that there's a happy ending.

--Sandra Rose, retail store manager

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