I Feel Bad for Whoever "He" Was

Story Sent in by Sean:

Samantha and I were both users of the same online message board group. It was a board for twenty-somethings to share information about group activities like concerts, art fairs, fundraisers, and so on. I had met some great local people, men and women, as friends through the group, but Samantha was different from anyone else I had met.

For starters, there were about 20 active users on the group, but she addressed each question she had about an event, regardless of whether I was the one who had posted it or not, to me and me alone.

Also, she sent me occasional private messages of an unusual variety: "Are you him?" was all that one of them read.

I replied, "I'm Sean! Nice to meet you."

Her response, "You may be him," was unsettling, but I didn't let it vex me. As time went on, however, she contacted me more and more, and most of it, in her defense, was coherent and very sweet, as if she really enjoyed talking to me.

I posted about an event I had heard that was to occur at a local historical house. Samantha messaged immediately that she'd accompany me to it, and I asked her if she wanted to make it into a lunch date. She replied that she liked the idea.

When we met, she gave me a big hug and took my hand. It was strange and I asked her, "You move pretty quick, don't you?"

She said, "If you were me, you'd know why."

"Care to share?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. I have to figure some things out, first."

I didn't have a problem with us holding hands, but she was gripping mine very tightly. Something was wrong, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to know what it was.

We walked through the historic house, where different vendors had set up shop to sell a number of products that were of the period: baked goods, antiques, and so on. I had never been to that house before, even though I lived so near it.

Every time I spoke to a female vendor, Samantha gave my hand a violent jerk. After it happened twice, I asked her, "What's your problem?"

She didn't respond, except by staring off into space. I tried to drop her hand, but her grip was tight. I then forcibly removed my hand from hers.

She gasped, stared at me with an open mouth, and walked away from me, outside the house. I wasn't about to follow her, as I was having a relaxing time, and so I went through the rest of the house at my own pace, until I finally emerged to see her in the yard, sitting under a tree.

I walked up to her and asked, "Ready to do lunch?"

She replied, "I don't know. Did you have fun flirting with those women, inside?"

"I asked one of them, 'Are your breads locally made?' and the other if she had a catalog."

She mumbled something and I didn't hear her. I asked her to repeat it and she replied, "You wanted them. I could tell. I'm surprised you didn't ask them to an upstairs bedroom, just like you did before."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

She stood up and said, "You are just like him. I was right."

I thought of a half-dozen argumentative responses on the spot, but instead chose, "I'll see you around," and walked away.

She hurried after me, and I thought about running, but instead I spun around and said to her, "Leave me alone, you freak!"

That stopped her. I kept walking until I made it home. Samantha hasn't been an active user of our message board since, although I do wonder if she pops in to "check on" me.