The Book of Apex: Volume 1 of Apex Magazine by Jason Sizemore Page B
Authors: Jason Sizemore
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She
wrestled me to the ground amongst a pile of magazines and old wrappers,
planting kisses over my face and hands. I followed the contours of her delicate
body with my fingertips, enjoying the curve of her hips, cupping her small,
round breasts in my palms. Her skin was warm and soft and smooth.
Quietly, gently, her lower lip
clasped tightly between her teeth, she reached down and pulled me inside her.
In the morning I woke to find
she had gone. A little yellow Post-it note was stuck to the alarm clock,
flapping gently in the draught from the half-open window. Light filtered
through in hazy streams, picking out the dust motes that swirled and danced in
the air all around me. I reached over and tugged at the message. It came away
in my hand.
Tomorrow night, 56
Westbrook Ave, 8pm
Isabella xxx
I smiled to myself and
clambered out of bed. I could hardly wait.
Fifty-six Westbrook Avenue was
a crumbling old Victorian townhouse; enormous, with large red steps leading up
to the front door and a little iron railing that ran parallel to the road.
Inside the front yard, huge leaves flapped like elephant’s ears in the cold
breeze and moss poked up inquisitively through the cracks between the paving
slabs. A lamp glowed dimly from behind the curtains in the downstairs living
room. I rapped the knocker briskly and drew my coat up around my neck to fight
off the chill.
After a few moments the door
creaked open and Isabella was smiling at me from within. The sight of her face
filled me with a sudden sense of well-being and relief.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
I handed her my coat and
struggled to find something to say as she hung it over the banister. A tall
grandfather clock ticked ominously in the corner. “Nice place. How was your day?
Isn’t it cold tonight?” I mumbled incoherently.
Isabella laughed, and, stepping
closer, touched her finger against my lips. I relented. Her face gleamed in the
low light of the hallway. I took that face in my hands and kissed it. Twice.
Afterwards, she clasped my hand
tightly between her own and led the way to the dining room. Candles spluttered,
arranged in a random fashion upon the large table. The flickering shadows they
cast on the walls and ceiling reminded me of tiny butterflies darting to and fro,
dancing in myriad patterns and shapes.
She handed me two glasses and
smiled.
I cut my hand opening the
bottle of wine.
“Bugger!”
“Oh, I am sorry, have you...?”
She never finished her sentence, but took my proffered hand and held it still
for a moment. Tiny beads of red blood swelled to the surface of my fingertip
before trickling down across the back of my knuckles in little tributaries. I
shifted slightly to stop them from dripping. Isabella had a strange look in her
eyes. I wondered for a moment if she was exasperated with my constant
clumsiness around her.
“Stay there for one second.”
She dashed out of the room. The blood felt warm and sticky against my skin.
“Here you go.” I heard her
voice from around the doorway before I saw her hurry back into the room. She
held out a swab of cotton wool and I took it gratefully, dabbing at my sticky
hand. She kissed me sympathetically on the cheek.
After I
had finished she took the cotton wool and showed me to the bathroom. The old
stairs creaked and heaved as I presented them with my weight. I rinsed my hands
and found a plaster in the mirrored cabinet that hung on the wall above the
sink. I rubbed some of the cold water over my face, judging my reflection in
the mirror. I felt like a buffoon.
Isabella’s towels were flung
haphazardly over a chrome rail that ran along one wall; they were soft and pink
and smelled of her. Cursing myself for being so clumsy, I dabbed myself dry and
found my way back down to the dining room.
Later that
night, as we lay together in bed, warmed by the soft glow of candles and each
other, she stroked my hand as if to apologize for the violation of the broken
glass. I held my breath and listened
wrestled me to the ground amongst a pile of magazines and old wrappers,
planting kisses over my face and hands. I followed the contours of her delicate
body with my fingertips, enjoying the curve of her hips, cupping her small,
round breasts in my palms. Her skin was warm and soft and smooth.
Quietly, gently, her lower lip
clasped tightly between her teeth, she reached down and pulled me inside her.
In the morning I woke to find
she had gone. A little yellow Post-it note was stuck to the alarm clock,
flapping gently in the draught from the half-open window. Light filtered
through in hazy streams, picking out the dust motes that swirled and danced in
the air all around me. I reached over and tugged at the message. It came away
in my hand.
Tomorrow night, 56
Westbrook Ave, 8pm
Isabella xxx
I smiled to myself and
clambered out of bed. I could hardly wait.
Fifty-six Westbrook Avenue was
a crumbling old Victorian townhouse; enormous, with large red steps leading up
to the front door and a little iron railing that ran parallel to the road.
Inside the front yard, huge leaves flapped like elephant’s ears in the cold
breeze and moss poked up inquisitively through the cracks between the paving
slabs. A lamp glowed dimly from behind the curtains in the downstairs living
room. I rapped the knocker briskly and drew my coat up around my neck to fight
off the chill.
After a few moments the door
creaked open and Isabella was smiling at me from within. The sight of her face
filled me with a sudden sense of well-being and relief.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
I handed her my coat and
struggled to find something to say as she hung it over the banister. A tall
grandfather clock ticked ominously in the corner. “Nice place. How was your day?
Isn’t it cold tonight?” I mumbled incoherently.
Isabella laughed, and, stepping
closer, touched her finger against my lips. I relented. Her face gleamed in the
low light of the hallway. I took that face in my hands and kissed it. Twice.
Afterwards, she clasped my hand
tightly between her own and led the way to the dining room. Candles spluttered,
arranged in a random fashion upon the large table. The flickering shadows they
cast on the walls and ceiling reminded me of tiny butterflies darting to and fro,
dancing in myriad patterns and shapes.
She handed me two glasses and
smiled.
I cut my hand opening the
bottle of wine.
“Bugger!”
“Oh, I am sorry, have you...?”
She never finished her sentence, but took my proffered hand and held it still
for a moment. Tiny beads of red blood swelled to the surface of my fingertip
before trickling down across the back of my knuckles in little tributaries. I
shifted slightly to stop them from dripping. Isabella had a strange look in her
eyes. I wondered for a moment if she was exasperated with my constant
clumsiness around her.
“Stay there for one second.”
She dashed out of the room. The blood felt warm and sticky against my skin.
“Here you go.” I heard her
voice from around the doorway before I saw her hurry back into the room. She
held out a swab of cotton wool and I took it gratefully, dabbing at my sticky
hand. She kissed me sympathetically on the cheek.
After I
had finished she took the cotton wool and showed me to the bathroom. The old
stairs creaked and heaved as I presented them with my weight. I rinsed my hands
and found a plaster in the mirrored cabinet that hung on the wall above the
sink. I rubbed some of the cold water over my face, judging my reflection in
the mirror. I felt like a buffoon.
Isabella’s towels were flung
haphazardly over a chrome rail that ran along one wall; they were soft and pink
and smelled of her. Cursing myself for being so clumsy, I dabbed myself dry and
found my way back down to the dining room.
Later that
night, as we lay together in bed, warmed by the soft glow of candles and each
other, she stroked my hand as if to apologize for the violation of the broken
glass. I held my breath and listened
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