Read Online The Book of Apex: Volume 1 of Apex Magazine by Jason Sizemore - Free Book Online
Authors: Jason Sizemore
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to the sound of cars passing beneath her
window, to her gentle exhalations as she quietly fell asleep. Just then, at
that point, the future seemed so welcoming; a bright, exhilarating place filled
with opportunity and promise.
The next week I borrowed my
brother’s car—an old, blue Ford Fiesta with patches of powdery rust over each
of the wheel arches—and drove us up to Whitby. We stopped on the way by a quiet
patch of moorland and bought an ice cream from the back of a makeshift stall.
The old man behind the hatch had smiled at us warmly, and Isabella, trying to
catch each tiny tributary of melted vanilla as it ran down the side of her
cone, managed to end up with smears of it all over her chin. She drew herself
up to me and laughed, trying in vain to keep a straight face. As I wiped her
clean with the edge of my thumb, her eyes shone, and I think I’d never felt so
happy. Her fingers trailed in mine as we made our way back to the car, the man
on the ice-cream stall watching us, amusement flashing in his eyes.
We arrived
in Whitby just after noon; I swung the Fiesta into a car park immediately
outside the town centre and we walked in along the water’s edge. We ate fish
and chips on the docks, sitting on little benches and huddled against the
spray, and watched the fisherman unloading their hauls in large crates full of
ice and silvery scales. Isabella pointed to the Abbey high on the cliff top,
sticking out against the horizon like a jagged, broken tooth. It seemed ominous
to me, a brooding ruin facing out toward the sea, warding away all unwanted
visitors.
After lunch she dragged me into
a little bookshop next door to an amusement arcade.
“Come on. I have to get a
souvenir!”
I sighed theatrically but was
disarmed by her childlike glee.
Isabella bought a copy of Dracula ; the elderly woman behind the counter looked expectant and tired,
as if worn down by the constant repetition of her day. She perked up for a
moment when I asked her for a copy of Titus Groan , but then sighed and
shook her head.
“We’re not that type of
bookshop, honey.”
Isabella hurried me out of the
door, her book rustling in its brown paper bag.
“Now for the beach!”
We made our way down to the
seafront for a walk. It was quiet with just a handful of children playing
amongst the rock pools, searching for crabs or other monsters left behind by
the retreating sea. Isabella kicked her shoes off to run in the sand and I
watched her dance, the breeze coming in off the water to whip her hair up
around her face. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I couldn’t believe my own
luck.
The drive home took three hours
and Isabella fell asleep in the passenger seat.
It started to rain and the
windscreen wipers on the old Fiesta creaked and moaned like a metronome as we
made our way along empty roads, the twilight and the misty rain leaving me with
the impression that we were driving through our own private universe, a pocket
world of our own devising.
When we finally pulled up
outside her house, I shook her gently awake. She unbuckled her seatbelt and
sleepily nuzzled my shoulder. Her hair smelled of vanilla.
“Is it still raining?”
“No, it stopped about half an hour
ago.”
“I’ve had a lovely day. Thank
you.” She planted a kiss on my cheek.
“Go on, go and get yourself
some sleep. Call me.”
She
clambered out of the passenger seat, her bag slung easily over one shoulder,
and made her way up the little red steps at the front of her house. She stood
and waved from her front door as I pulled away, the car radio blaring an old,
fuzzy version of The Who’s “My Generation.”
The following weeks passed by
in a heady frenzy of conversation, laughter and sex. Basking in each other’s
company, we spent all our free time together. We took trips to visit old
country houses, shared secret laughter in the solemnity of a portrait gallery,
ate greasy pizzas at her favorite fast food restaurant, had rough sex
window, to her gentle exhalations as she quietly fell asleep. Just then, at
that point, the future seemed so welcoming; a bright, exhilarating place filled
with opportunity and promise.
The next week I borrowed my
brother’s car—an old, blue Ford Fiesta with patches of powdery rust over each
of the wheel arches—and drove us up to Whitby. We stopped on the way by a quiet
patch of moorland and bought an ice cream from the back of a makeshift stall.
The old man behind the hatch had smiled at us warmly, and Isabella, trying to
catch each tiny tributary of melted vanilla as it ran down the side of her
cone, managed to end up with smears of it all over her chin. She drew herself
up to me and laughed, trying in vain to keep a straight face. As I wiped her
clean with the edge of my thumb, her eyes shone, and I think I’d never felt so
happy. Her fingers trailed in mine as we made our way back to the car, the man
on the ice-cream stall watching us, amusement flashing in his eyes.
We arrived
in Whitby just after noon; I swung the Fiesta into a car park immediately
outside the town centre and we walked in along the water’s edge. We ate fish
and chips on the docks, sitting on little benches and huddled against the
spray, and watched the fisherman unloading their hauls in large crates full of
ice and silvery scales. Isabella pointed to the Abbey high on the cliff top,
sticking out against the horizon like a jagged, broken tooth. It seemed ominous
to me, a brooding ruin facing out toward the sea, warding away all unwanted
visitors.
After lunch she dragged me into
a little bookshop next door to an amusement arcade.
“Come on. I have to get a
souvenir!”
I sighed theatrically but was
disarmed by her childlike glee.
Isabella bought a copy of Dracula ; the elderly woman behind the counter looked expectant and tired,
as if worn down by the constant repetition of her day. She perked up for a
moment when I asked her for a copy of Titus Groan , but then sighed and
shook her head.
“We’re not that type of
bookshop, honey.”
Isabella hurried me out of the
door, her book rustling in its brown paper bag.
“Now for the beach!”
We made our way down to the
seafront for a walk. It was quiet with just a handful of children playing
amongst the rock pools, searching for crabs or other monsters left behind by
the retreating sea. Isabella kicked her shoes off to run in the sand and I
watched her dance, the breeze coming in off the water to whip her hair up
around her face. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I couldn’t believe my own
luck.
The drive home took three hours
and Isabella fell asleep in the passenger seat.
It started to rain and the
windscreen wipers on the old Fiesta creaked and moaned like a metronome as we
made our way along empty roads, the twilight and the misty rain leaving me with
the impression that we were driving through our own private universe, a pocket
world of our own devising.
When we finally pulled up
outside her house, I shook her gently awake. She unbuckled her seatbelt and
sleepily nuzzled my shoulder. Her hair smelled of vanilla.
“Is it still raining?”
“No, it stopped about half an hour
ago.”
“I’ve had a lovely day. Thank
you.” She planted a kiss on my cheek.
“Go on, go and get yourself
some sleep. Call me.”
She
clambered out of the passenger seat, her bag slung easily over one shoulder,
and made her way up the little red steps at the front of her house. She stood
and waved from her front door as I pulled away, the car radio blaring an old,
fuzzy version of The Who’s “My Generation.”
The following weeks passed by
in a heady frenzy of conversation, laughter and sex. Basking in each other’s
company, we spent all our free time together. We took trips to visit old
country houses, shared secret laughter in the solemnity of a portrait gallery,
ate greasy pizzas at her favorite fast food restaurant, had rough sex
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