The Book of Apex: Volume 1 of Apex Magazine by Jason Sizemore Page A

all things were new. If I showed my ignorance she would simply
smile at me knowingly, and then kiss me brightly on the forehead, her lips
leaving a cool, damp impression on my skin.
    When I first saw her she was
poring over the pages of a scientific journal, her lips carefully following the
words of some difficult passage, silently committing them to memory. The bus
shelter curved in a protective arc over her head, its dirty plastic barrier
holding off the snowflakes of yet another miserable English night. They tumbled
gently around me, catching every now and then on my cuff or sleeve, only to
wink silently out of existence like tiny stars.
    I smiled.
    She didn’t even notice me.
    I took my place under the
shelter and willed the bus to come around the corner.
    Beside me, an ancient, careworn
woman was standing hunched over the figure of an elderly man, lecturing him on
the benefits of having turned up the sleeves of her cardigan.
    “I just cut them off about
here,” she said, indicating with her finger, “and then turned them up to here.
I did one the same for little Violet, you know.”
    “They just come down to me
knuckles, these do, these sleeves.” He looked up at her plaintively.
    “Just pop round one afternoon
Tom, I’ll do anything, me.” A pause. “I’m up at the cemetery tomorrow mind,
about twelve o’clock. Shan’t stay long, be home for quarter-to.”
    “Aye. I’ll be at the bookie’s,
meself.” He looked up at me and winked.
    I turned away quickly,
embarrassed. Two eyes peered up from the pages of the journal, momentarily
lost, as if the sudden segue-way between theory and reality had left her
disorientated, out-of-sorts. She looked over. I held her gaze. She smiled. I
smiled back. The bus came around the corner.
    It skidded to a stop about
three feet from the shelter, causing a wave of dirty water to slop up onto the
curb. The doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss. We clambered on board.
Noisily, the driver gunned the engine and we headed off into the night,
surrounded by the odd, uncomfortable bustle of disparate strangers trying to
make their way home.
     
    The next day I was surprised to
find her take a seat beside me. I shuffled up to make room and pulled my
headphones away from my ears, unsure of her intentions. I glanced over. She was
smiling at me expectantly, wanting to talk.
    “What are
you listening to?” Her voice was soft and sugary, perfect.
    “The Throwing Muses.”
    “I love their University album.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah, I’ve got it at home
somewhere. Haven’t listened to it in years though. Too busy with, well...” She
indicated her reading.
    I smiled. “I know that
feeling.” I rubbed my hand over my chin, the rough, unshaven bristles like
sandpaper against my palm.
    “Sometimes it just feels like
the whole world is conspiring against you, and you only wish you could step
back for a moment to take a breath.”
    I stared at her for what seemed
like an age. “Do you fancy a drink?”
     
    The pub was cozy and out of the
way. Snowflakes spattered on the windowpanes, rolling across the wet glass like
tiny beads. An open fire flickered in the grate, casting dark shadows across
the faces of the other patrons, exposing their sinister sides to anyone who
cared to look. Couples whispered to one another in hushed tones. I spilt her
drink.
    “I’m so sorry. I’ll just get
you another.”
    “No, please, let me.”
    “No, really.”
    We laughed at our awkwardness.
I bought the drink.
    Later, when I thought she
wouldn’t notice, I watched her breathing, the little bird-like fluttering in
her chest as she formed her words, the gentle pursing of her lips as she
exhaled. I was exhilarated. She caught me watching and smiled at me
inquisitively. I looked away, embarrassed. Her blue eyes flashed with
amusement.
    It wasn’t long before we found
ourselves back at my place.
    I never got past putting the
kettle on. We tugged at each other’s clothes, awkward and still unfamiliar.