Strange Love

He'd usually take something. Nothing major. Maybe a DVD or a CD. A box of crackers from a cupboard. A watch. Money, of course, if he found any. Once he took a digital camera. But it wasn't about stealing things; he took things mainly as souvenirs.

He did it for the strange feelings he experienced being in somebody's house when they weren't there. It was exciting. Not in a pervy way; he wasn't one of those guys who jerked off in woman's panty drawer or took a dump on the pillow. He'd read about those guys. Those guys were sick.

What he liked was looking in their closets, their dressers, their cupboards, their refrigerators and medicine cabinets. Touching their things. He liked being able to brush up against the lives of other people without them knowing. He liked the feeling of intimacy.

It wasn't about stealing. Or sex. They'd never understand that. They'd never understand that really, deep inside, it was about love.