Our gentle footsteps seem invasive, illegal somehow. The dark tunnel effect is dizzyingly effective as we tiptoe out onto a three-hundred-and-sixty degree stellar walkway. I hold my breath. If Emma’s hand wasn’t squeezing mine, I’d be head over heels off balance instead of head over heels in . . . liking her a lot. Hotshot. It’s a deep-bone thrombosis of stars and gravitational attraction. Body to body, orbit to orbit, me to her. We’re cosmic trespassers, and I feel just as transparent as the see-through window encasing us. She looks right into me, her warm breath reaching my cheek where it lingers. Utter silence. My heavy breathing now feels part of oblivion, hers a solar wind from light years away. We’re together now, though. So together. She roves her flat palm from my side across the front of my t-shirt, exciting a halo that dissolves down through my entire body. As I take that hand, I’m a wisp at her mercy. Her fingers pulse magic as we draw near, and her breasts press against my rib cage. Near. No fear. We’re… Café at the Edge of Outer Space © 2008 by Robert Appleton All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. An Eternal Press Production Eternal Press 206 - 6059 Pandora St. Burnaby, British Columbia, Canada, V5B 1M4 To order additional copies of this book, contact: www. eternalpress.ca Cover Art © 2008 by Shirley Burnett Edited by Heather Williams Copyedited by Rose Vera Stepney Layout and Book Production by Ally Robertson eBook ISBN: 978-1-897559-16-1 First Edition * July 2008 Production by Eternal Press Printed in Canada and The United States of America. Robert Appleton Strangely, I find an air of nostalgia where there is no air. I’m looking out of a window that never needs cleaning from outside. It’s pretty much impenetrable, too. Just the faint threat of things over which we’ve no control – you know, asteroids, solar flares, terrorism, things like that. “Facing space,” they call it. Something to do with a rite of passage. Everyone leaves Earth at sixteen – that’s the law – and we’re not allowed to return until our twenty-sixth birthdays. Talk about a graduation. There’s a kind of window over the Earth as well. It isn’t solid, it’s translucent – a hazy helmet of cloud and pollution. Great Britain passed by a few minutes ago. I could just about make out where I lived, more or less dead centre on the island. Apparently, Britain used to be much bigger. And warmer. More sandy beaches, less pack ice. I can’t quite picture Blackpool without snow, though. Outdoor roller-coasters? They must’ve been insane. It’s been days since I saw anyone familiar. All my classmates are still hundreds of miles below, probably wondering what the café at the edge of outer space is really like. I wish I could tell them. I’m the oldest, but their turns will come soon enough. It’s actually not too different from the school diner: everyone’s in each other’s way, no one wants to stay here long, and the food is bloody awful. So, I’m out on my own. I left Earth a boy, and they’re counting on me to find Frank Archer the man. There’s something disconcerting about that whole idea. I don’t want to change. Why should I? Where will travelling the universe take me, except away from here? What if I never find another place as peaceful as Lancashire. What if I change for the worse? We’re the future of Earth; without proper guidance, who’s to say we won’t become a planet of cutthroats? So much for their claims of overpopulation – by the time you’re old enough to understand the notion, they’ve already shipped you off into orbit. It’s a bizarre way of treating children, if you ask me. Another alarm sounds. Everyone cover up their dinner! . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . whew, that was chilly. The shadow passes over the café like a storm cloud, freezing four tall men in their tracks as they make a run for it. The authorities have caught them this time, but I wonder how long it’ll be before someone figures out a way to cheat this security. I’ve no idea what this substance they’ve put in our blood is, except that it responds immediately to those shadow nets. Instant freeze. It’s a good security measure. There’s no escaping what runs through your veins. Emma returns from the bathroom. Wow, she really is gorgeous. Short, not too skinny, dirty blonde hair, purple tank top. We met three days ago, just before our arrival. We were on the same shuttle, which meant our birthdates were identical. Of all the guys on board, I think I came off the luckiest – the powers-that-be had already paired us together, and aren’t I thankful. We hit it off right away. She’s got the sense of humour, I’ve got the laugh; not a bad way to disguise the shiver I’m feeling. I’m hopelessly and utterly terrified. A few hundred yards away is a meanlyaccoutred-box hotel room that smells of fresh soap and has red-orange walls and a green carpet with a fluffy, white rug, and a huge double bed like my parents have. Unless I can stall for another half a day, that is where . . . today is when . . . I’m supposed to do the honours. To make a man of me. To get closer to Emma than I’ve ever been with anyone in my life. To peel away her purple tank top, perfumed mystique, back bra and tight-fitting jeans and god-knows-what’sunder-there underwear. I rhyme when I’m nervous. My coffee cup trembles as I pretend nonchalance, so it’s back to holding it with two hands while I sip. Dad said I’d drink tea and coffee when I was older – just something all adults grow accustomed to, he assured me – but I can see the cheat in that wisdom now. I’m drinking coffee, but only because hot chocolate isn’t macho enough when you have to seduce a gorgeous girl. It isn’t because I like the taste, or even that I want to drink it. Painfully obvious now, it’s a case of drinking until you become accustomed to it, just like other adult vices such as beer or cigarettes or tipples of whisky. Yep, coffee is a cruel necessity in the rites of passage to adulthood. I wonder what other cruelties there are . . . black bra . . . not far . . . wish upon a star. “Hi,” I say. My stomach churns. “Hey.” She sits down sideways with such allure it’s practically frame-advance slow motion. During the past three days, I’ve become more and more light-headed whenever Emma’s returned to close proximity after leaving the room. It’s a terrifying-yet-compelling feeling of what she’ll do next or, more specifically, what she’ll make me do next. I can feel my control over the situation lessen each time. This girl whom I’ve only just met and know hardly anything about, has me dancing like a boy puppet on girly strings. I swear I’ve never felt anything like it. Back in Lancashire, I was a fairly popular, sporty kinda guy who got nervous in exams but usually kept a cool head when others fell to bits. But this! This isn’t me. It’s a melting ice cream and jelly version of me. The café at the edge of outer space? And we’re barely at the aperitif. “What was all that about?” she asks. For one awful moment, I imagine I’ve been thinking out loud. My eyes blur together and my cheeks start to burn. “I heard the alarm again, and there was some commotion outside the door,” she continues. “Anything serious?” I recover. “They caught someone this time.” “Oh? What did they look like?” “Tall. I think there were four men. You said you’d heard something about a security clampdown?” “Yeah, just something I overheard in the landing dock. Apparently it’s back home, but they’re taking no chances here either.” “Wonder if that’s the end of it?” I ask. Emma shrugs and sips her cappuccino, elbows on the table. Her arms and neck are milk white, contrasting auspiciously with her dark purple top. I sneak a glance at her breasts pushing the shiny fabric taut behind her elbows. She’s stunning. I’m way out of my depth, and it’s getting seriously warm in here. My gulp has nothing to do with coffee. “How weird is it staring out at space like this?” I say, breaking the tension – another adult knack I’ve been forced to acquire. “I know – it’s like looking up through your bedroom window, and then realising you’re already up there. Crazy. Frank?” “Yeah?” “Can I ask you something?” Uh-oh. “Yeah, sure.” “Um, I don’t really know how to say this. Do you…did you um, have…a girlfriend? Cos I like you and . . . ” Something bizarre happens. While I’m at my most vulnerable, eyes lighthousing, knuckles practically knocking hello on the underside of the table. I feel strangely empowered. Emma’s just as nervous as me! And, as difficult as it is for her, she’s making the first move. An odd sensation engulfs me. If it weren’t for my quagmire of insecurities, I might identify it as something like . . . protection? Me…protective? “Nah, I didn’t have a girlfriend when I left. You?” I can’t believe that came out so composed. Her lips quiver as she smiles and shakes her head with wide eyes as if to say, “What the heck’s a boyfriend?” “No, me neither,” she says, looking down. “So . . . ” We both speak together. “So,” she repeats. “Macaroni,” I say. “So, shall I order for both of us?” Our eyes meet and we burst out laughing. A nervous, desperate laugh. I haven’t a clue why I said that, and she hasn’t either. It just sounded so rand...
allforjesus2001