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Authors: Jason Sizemore
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up
against a tree in her childhood park. We strolled the streets together long
after midnight, watching the patrons stumbling out of the clubs, vibrantly
alive in the neon glow of the city. We took a slow walk by the riverside, our
fingers and hearts entwined, the rain thrumming down all around us, hiding us
behind its thin veil, secreting us away from the outside world. Our orbits
changed; we circled each other like gravity wouldn’t let us come apart. I had
time for nothing else in my life.
It was during those days that I
often found her working, hunched over her microscope in the little laboratory
at the back of her house, or else receiving samples through the post, tiny
vials of red blood that she would set to work on immediately, decoding their
new enigma, solving their puzzle as if it meant she were saving the world. She
threw herself into her work as though it somehow redeemed her, made her whole.
For my part, I was due to start lecturing again at the nearby college and so,
after nearly a month of living in each other’s pockets, it was with a heavy
heart that I retired to my flat on the other side of town to begin preparatory
work for the course. I found it difficult to concentrate on Shakespeare,
though, when every word reminded me of Isabella, every passing car made me
think of those long hours spent lying beside her in her bed, every song on the
radio somehow relevant to how I felt. She was a siren, and I was the sailor
caught up in her spell.
Three days later I received a
call.
“Can you come round?”
“What, now? I thought you were
working?”
“I’m finished. Look, I have a
present for you.” She sounded nervous, full of energy.
I laughed. “In that case I’ll
be round in twenty minutes.”
In truth, it was nearer to an
hour. The bus was late, and I shivered underneath the shelter, my only company
a squat, grey pigeon that fluttered about the street pecking at abandoned
cigarette ends.
When the bus finally arrived it
was empty. I took a seat toward the front, pushing myself up against the
window. Dirty rainwater lined the rubber seals around the window frame where
the edges had perished. I shifted to avoid getting wet. Moments later, a man
hopped up onto the platform with two small boys in tow. I watched them push and
pull at each other’s clothes as their father dropped his change into the ticket
machine.
“Won’t be a tick, I’ve got the
change in here somewhere.” He fished around in the pocket of his jeans and then
fed some more money into the machine. One of the boys pushed the other onto the
floor. The man pretended not to notice. He hesitated for a moment, and then the
ticket machine emitted a stream of gaudy paper.
“Come on, get up off the floor!
We’ve got to go and find a seat.”
I closed my eyes and tried to
pretend I was asleep.
The boys hurtled up the stairs
faster than their father could keep up; I could hear their feet pounding on the
upper deck, the sound of it creaking underneath their weight. And then: “Pack
that in! Now stop that!”
The bus rolled slowly away from
the pavement, the driver gunning the engine to try to stir some life from the
ancient machine.
A few minutes later, we pulled
up by a stop a couple of doors down the street from Isabella’s house. As I
clambered down from the bus and gave my thanks to the driver, I caught sight of
Isabella peering out from behind the curtains of her living room window. I
smiled and waved. She pressed her hand against the glass in brief
acknowledgment, then disappeared from view. I made my way quickly along the
road, passing the dreary façades of old houses which seemed to loom out at me
like tired, care-worn faces. My breath steamed in front of my face in the cold.
I had the feeling it was going to rain again.
Moments later, I tried the
handle of Isabella’s front door and found it was already open. I stepped inside
and drew myself into the warmth, rubbing my hands together to restart my
circulation.
The house
against a tree in her childhood park. We strolled the streets together long
after midnight, watching the patrons stumbling out of the clubs, vibrantly
alive in the neon glow of the city. We took a slow walk by the riverside, our
fingers and hearts entwined, the rain thrumming down all around us, hiding us
behind its thin veil, secreting us away from the outside world. Our orbits
changed; we circled each other like gravity wouldn’t let us come apart. I had
time for nothing else in my life.
It was during those days that I
often found her working, hunched over her microscope in the little laboratory
at the back of her house, or else receiving samples through the post, tiny
vials of red blood that she would set to work on immediately, decoding their
new enigma, solving their puzzle as if it meant she were saving the world. She
threw herself into her work as though it somehow redeemed her, made her whole.
For my part, I was due to start lecturing again at the nearby college and so,
after nearly a month of living in each other’s pockets, it was with a heavy
heart that I retired to my flat on the other side of town to begin preparatory
work for the course. I found it difficult to concentrate on Shakespeare,
though, when every word reminded me of Isabella, every passing car made me
think of those long hours spent lying beside her in her bed, every song on the
radio somehow relevant to how I felt. She was a siren, and I was the sailor
caught up in her spell.
Three days later I received a
call.
“Can you come round?”
“What, now? I thought you were
working?”
“I’m finished. Look, I have a
present for you.” She sounded nervous, full of energy.
I laughed. “In that case I’ll
be round in twenty minutes.”
In truth, it was nearer to an
hour. The bus was late, and I shivered underneath the shelter, my only company
a squat, grey pigeon that fluttered about the street pecking at abandoned
cigarette ends.
When the bus finally arrived it
was empty. I took a seat toward the front, pushing myself up against the
window. Dirty rainwater lined the rubber seals around the window frame where
the edges had perished. I shifted to avoid getting wet. Moments later, a man
hopped up onto the platform with two small boys in tow. I watched them push and
pull at each other’s clothes as their father dropped his change into the ticket
machine.
“Won’t be a tick, I’ve got the
change in here somewhere.” He fished around in the pocket of his jeans and then
fed some more money into the machine. One of the boys pushed the other onto the
floor. The man pretended not to notice. He hesitated for a moment, and then the
ticket machine emitted a stream of gaudy paper.
“Come on, get up off the floor!
We’ve got to go and find a seat.”
I closed my eyes and tried to
pretend I was asleep.
The boys hurtled up the stairs
faster than their father could keep up; I could hear their feet pounding on the
upper deck, the sound of it creaking underneath their weight. And then: “Pack
that in! Now stop that!”
The bus rolled slowly away from
the pavement, the driver gunning the engine to try to stir some life from the
ancient machine.
A few minutes later, we pulled
up by a stop a couple of doors down the street from Isabella’s house. As I
clambered down from the bus and gave my thanks to the driver, I caught sight of
Isabella peering out from behind the curtains of her living room window. I
smiled and waved. She pressed her hand against the glass in brief
acknowledgment, then disappeared from view. I made my way quickly along the
road, passing the dreary façades of old houses which seemed to loom out at me
like tired, care-worn faces. My breath steamed in front of my face in the cold.
I had the feeling it was going to rain again.
Moments later, I tried the
handle of Isabella’s front door and found it was already open. I stepped inside
and drew myself into the warmth, rubbing my hands together to restart my
circulation.
The house
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