Apex Book Company

I fell in love with a red-head on the bus.

Her eyes were sparkling windows of blue, glassy and serene. Her hair was a shock of amber that fell in waves about her shoulders. Sometimes she wore it tied back in a taut ponytail. When I think of her, I see a pair of skinny trousers, cut short, in black and white pinstripe, and an old cream jumper wrapped around her body, pulled up underneath her chin. It was winter. Our breaths made steaming clouds in the night air; fogged up the windows on the inside of the old Leyland bus. We watched each other with cautious eyes.

Her name was Isabella.

She spent her time making blood. Later, she would talk to me about the nature of blood; show me her little laboratory that smelled of formaldehyde. She would hunch for hours over her enormous electronic microscope, rearranging plasma, synthesising the fluid of life. She would smile to herself at little triumphs; rub the back of her aching neck with her left hand. I never quite grasped the complexities of those hours, the nuances that made the blood of one person so different from that of another. Still, now, I have difficulty understanding the allure, the reasons she did what she did. Looking back, with the benefit of hindsight, I think she saw it as a failure on my part, this lack of comprehension, and it undermined our relationship from the very start. But at the time we were full of hope and optimism, and 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 kerb. 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 cosy 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. 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.