of Adams and Apples

“Uhm, the candy bars,” he stutters, glancing over his shoulder at the man behind him. “Funny to have them after the magazines advertising the miracle diets, y’know?”

And so I play the idiot. Good job, Geoff.

“You are so right,” the man says, smiling. “But we don’t have to worry about that, do we?”

He reaches past Geoff  as he says this, nicking a Snickers with deft fingers.

A puzzled look, eyebrows up and arched.

“We’re guys. Metabolism. They hate us for that,” he laughs, dropping the mark of his caloric sins into his basket.

“Oh, right.” An awkward reply, but Geoff’s already waist deep.

“Ivan, by the way,” the man offers.

Geoff smiles, flashing a few shades of ivory. He relinquishes his own name, short and brisk and falling lazily off his tongue.

It’s his turn at the till now, and the silent boxes, cans and bags are unleashed in a clamour upon the counter. Each proclaims its worth as it passes from plastic basket to plastic bag: $3.49, $6.97, two dollars off with your club card, you now have enough points to trade for a toothbrush, sir.

Geoff hands over his card, punches in his date of birth, and makes for the automatic doors.

“Hey Geoff!”

I guess someone does watch to open the door.

He stops and turns, Ivan unloading his own mess of packaging past the apathetic girl at the till and into the black canvas bag. If he had a card, fifty bonus points would have been his for the taking, though he was already scoring high in Geoff’s books.

“Yah?” There’s a sparkle of amusement in Geoff’s voice, matching that in his eyes.

Ivan voices his need to have Geoff right then, right there. Geoff finds himself pinned against the glass of the window behind him, hands clenched in Ivan’s own but not needing the restraint. The flimsy plastic of the grocery bag rips in an effort to mask the same movement of Geoff’s shirt, but spills fruit instead of flesh. An apple rolls across the ground, a heart-shaped red delicious.

Ivan looks into Geoff’s eyes, peering into their depths and finding himself reflected inside. His voice is low and hushed as he asks,

“Are you hopping onto a bus?”

Geoff discovers the white grocery bag still very much intact, likewise regarding the cotton of his shirt. A shame, though he likes the shirt quite a bit, but not enough to mourn its loss at the strong, masculine, yet still somehow soft hands of Ivan.

Am I making assumptions based on his name?!

“Only if you are,” Geoff replies, trading awkward comments for petty humour, a much better tool than the toothbrush offered.

“Ninety seven?”

“Ninety seven.”

“Alright,” Ivan says. “See you at the stop?”


Geoff waves a quick goodbye before stepping through the doors, a cold rush of air greeting him. It is the breath of God breathed into Adam, a stiff wind of life and hope and change. Across the lot and the street is his stop, giving him but a minute to gather his thoughts.

And just what are my thoughts?

The End

23 comments about this story Feed