Issue 1: Fiction
When my friends met you, they called you swoop doop. Endearingly-they liked you then.
When your Mom met me, she told me that you wake up at five to fuss with your hair. I thought she was joking. Then I wondered if she was trying to warn me off, or if she liked me, or if she was telling me that because she liked me.
This bus stop shelters me from the snow, not the cold.
Above the toy shop across the street is an apartment with one square window, sandwiched by two windows of the same height, half width.
In the left window is a staircase, a sign of a convertible apartment. I wanted one of those.
A man walks down the staircase, with a basket of laundry in his arms. I see him through the middle window. His hair looks like yours did when we met.
The man’s facial structure, the rest of his build is off. He’s a bit older too, you aren’t middle aged just yet.
This other lonely person knows nothing of his near doppelganger. I sneak furtive glances, watch him fold his laundry. I feel like I used to know him, like I might want to know him again.
His hair is alight. I stand still, hope he won’t catch me looking.
One day after we left work I followed you to your place. You had one hand on the wheel, one hand in your hair for the whole forty minute drive. Did your arm get tired, or don’t you remember those details? Did you wish them all away like fuzz spiraling off the top of a dandelion?
The bus is here to transport me to my new home- a shelter apart from the snow and the cold.
S. Elizabeth Sigler worked in the Public Libraries of rural Ohio for five years before she moved to Chicago. She is a Selection Editor at Millennial Pulp, and she has had a poem in From Whispers to Roars. In her spare time she reads, writes, and explores the city.