A Letter to a Thief

To the woman who stole a dress from the store, whom I confronted in the street:

I know you stole that dress.  The hanger was sticking out of your bag when I chased you down in the street.  When I pointed that out, you said that you liked the hanger, then huffed and sighed and rolled your eyes saying "Jeez, I'll pay you the $5."  And the dress?  How would you like to pay for that?

I put the items you wanted to try on in the fitting room, (and counted them as I did) so I know what you had in there.  Also, we only had three of those dresses, and now there are two.

Look, I think stealing is wrong, but if you are going to do it, there should at least be rules.  Such as, once you are caught, you should hand over the merchandise.  All I got was a hanger.

I started by trying to give you a way out.  I suggested that maybe you had taken the dress accidentally.  I would even have been prepared to accept an excuse to that effect.  "Oops, it must have fallen into my bag!" you might have said.  And I would have taken back the dress without question.  I still would have known that you'd stolen it (as would you), but we both could have pretended that you weren't a lying, thieving, bitch.

As it stands, I kind of hope a piano falls on your head in the near future.

I doubt that you got home and sobbed.  I doubt you thought about me for longer than a few minutes as you congratulated yourself on a successful grab, whereas I have thought about you every few minutes for the last five hours.

I have run through every scenario in my head as to how I might have done things differently.  In one, I scream at the top of my lungs until someone calls the police.  In another, my eyes well up and I plead with you to give it back and you, taking pity on this poor, pathetic shop girl, denounce your life of crime and hand it to me.  In another, I tackle you to the ground, empty out your purse taking back the dress and whatever cash you have on hand as a "finder's fee".  And then I spit on you.  And, I don't know, kick dirt in your eyes, or whatever it is that bullies do.  Because that's what you are: a bully.

I hope you spill something red and permanent the first time you wear your stolen dress.  But most of all, I hope you think of me every time you look at it.  And I hope the thought of me gives you the same sick feeling in your stomach that I have when I think of you.

With thoughts of vengence and general stabby feelings,
Julia