Robert has no remarkable talent. He had no excellent musical capability no knack for sciences or mathematics. He is no brilliant engineer nor a thriving businessman. Long were the days when he could call himself anything except for average. He is no great sculptor of minds, no great giver of charity. He is no celebrated author or renowned speaker. Robert is thoroughly average. A cog in the machine. A "slave to industry," he would jokingly call himself, even as he crossed picket lines.
Robert will spend most of his life at work; most of that time is spent imagining himself with the love of his life. Staring, hours of his days wasted, just looking in her general direction. "Robbie," she called him, a nickname he vehemently hated but never mustered the courage to speak up. Every day he waited for her to leave, he would walk her home, claiming he lived in the same direction, yet it added an additional hour to his commute at night. Some days, they would talk. Others, he would just walk behind her, staring and imagining.
He manufactured "coincidences" to convince her they were meant to be. Shopping at the same grocery store at the same time every week. He watches her pick up drinks and snacks, bringing them into the office to create a conversation in the lunchroom. He knew where she lived, her schedule, the details of her life, all but the intimates. He created run-ins, and puppet mastered their lunches. She was a goal.
He. Wanted. Her.