Amy’s Bio:

Amy Perry is a graduate student for sociology and teaching assistant at the University of Missouri - St. Louis, as well as a part-time barista at a Barnes and Noble cafe, which has, if not inspired her love for coffee and reading, at least cemented it. She has previously been published in her university's two literary magazines, and won third place in the WOW! Women on Writing Summer '08 Flash Fiction Contest with her piece Ueno. When not writing, working or learning, she spends her time tending to the needs of her spoiled kitten Stark (pictured here clinging to her shoulders), and reading marvel comics.

Much Like Flying

By Amy Perry

 

One toe over the line, a polished Mary Jane creeps toward the precipice. Above, steel beams and unfriendly ceiling. Opposite, glossy posters of American actresses and Japanese pop stars hawking cell phones and coffee drinks. Below, train tracks and gravel. Red-brown. Treacherous tracks. The toe creeps subtly forward, followed by a leg, over vent slats, closer, closer. Most times during the day, someone would notice, someone would care. But no one calls out. In cell phone conversations and with presentations they're absorbed as they wait to hear the metallic whoosh and snap of train doors that lets people in and stale smells out. The girl dressed for school inches closer, closer, until the tip of her foot tastes air. To her left comes the soft sound of wheels. The signal. Both feet back on the platform she leads with her hips, one knee bent, arms out, like she’s springing from a diving board. A shout of realization rings in her ears. People take notice. She holds her breath and waits to feel nothing but red-wet and black-black. Instead her senses are jarred by a strong grip on her upper arm pulling her backward. Only then does she lose her footing.

Seconds later, minutes perhaps, she lifts her hands to her closed eyes and places her fingertips there, as if she can only peel the lids back. She finds that a circle has formed around her. Has her eyesight gone funny? Their faces are blurred until all that remains of them are general categories—salary man, office lady, old, old. Students interspersed throughout, some with cell phones aimed, taking her picture, forwarding it to their friends. Freak show-style intrigue. Nausea curls in her stomach, tempts her to throw up, but she doesn't want to deal with the mess.

The hand that forced her back from the brink is coaxing her up now, a little gentler than before. She looks up into a face with nothing features. Just some station attendant. In her mind, this scenario in perpetual rewind and replay, she had toyed with the idea that someone might come to her rescue, but that role was usually filled by a handsome stranger with muscular arms and warm eyes. One time, only once, it was the school coach, a man who wears the smell of French fries and hairspray like cologne. He crept into her thoughts like a cockroach, grease-black and indestructible. Her fantasy self, she recalls, rolled out of his arms and onto the tracks just to put some distance between them.

Lips move a fraction of a second before words form as the attendant attempts to speak. “Are you all right? Should I call your mother?” His voice is matte, lifeless. She can't stop herself from thinking that this is wrong, all wrong.

“Not my mother.”

“Your teacher?”

“No, no.” She hastens to right herself, smooth her skirt flat. A cursory check of her arms and legs reveals nary a scratch. When she looks up she sees the station attendant staring at her, his mind whirring, chugging, burning on nothing. She can almost see smoke and dust billowing out his ears as he works to determine what to do, where to go from here.

“Are you sure…?” he tentatively ventures, only for her to cut across his speech with eagerness and earnestness she doesn't feel.

“I'm fine, fine!” She assures him as her steps back her away from the attendant and into the dispersed, disinterested crowd. “I just slipped, fell. An accident, really. Thanks for saving me, but I have a math test I'll miss if I'm late.”

The wheels to the arriving train squeal to a halt; the doors wheeze open. People in, stale air out. Above, the same steel beams, opposite, the same posters, below, the same train tracks, gravel. Red-brown dirt. Dust streaming out the attendant’s ears. It’s clear that he wants to object; his hand lifts to pull her back, but a moment’s hesitation is all it takes to lose her to the human current. Yes, he assures himself, a math test is too important to miss. And anyway, come to think of it, he’s no longer so sure that she jumped. The expression, the pose, much more like she was trying to fly.

The train pulls out of the station. People mill about. At the end of the short tunnel leading out the station attendant sees a crescent of sky, blue-blue.

***