Black Static #70 (July-August 2019) by 2019 Jul-Aug (s)

Author:2019 Jul-Aug (s)
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror Fiction & Film
Publisher: TTA Press
Published: 2019-07-18T00:00:00+00:00

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Cody Goodfellow’s latest novels are Unamerica (King Shot Press) and Scum of the Earth (Eraserhead Press). His previous novel Sleazeland was reviewed here recently. Learn more at codygoodfellow.com. Visit Sebastian Mazuera on Instagram @necromogarip.

THE TOUCH OF HER

STEVEN SHEIL

He pretended to be on the phone while he watched Hannah through the window as she took the cappuccino over to where The Toad sat, the same corner table which Mark himself had occupied almost daily for three months, right up until three weeks ago, when The Bad Thing had happened.

She leant down as she placed the coffee cup in front of The Toad, and as she did so, a corkscrew of black hair slipped and curled across her cheek, falling almost to her lips until she reached up her spare hand and deftly stroked it back behind her ear. He saw The Toad’s eyes follow the movement of her hand, saw his mouth move as he made some remark, saw Hannah smile politely before turning away again and walking back to the counter. He saw The Toad watch her over the lip of the cup as he sipped at his coffee, his heavy-lidded, reptilian eyes never leaving her body. Mark had never loathed him more.

A car went past, momentarily blocking his view of the cafe window, and when it was gone he realised that Hannah was looking out towards where he stood. His heart leapt and he felt the familiar lurch in his gut that happened every time he felt their Connection, but he knew he had to watch himself, not scare her away, not let his intensity of feeling overwhelm her too quickly. He forced himself to turn his head, remembered that he was supposed to be speaking to someone on the phone, so moved his lips, That’s right, yes, that’s right. When he let his eyes drift back over to the cafe window, she had turned her back, was talking with one of the other waitresses. He felt a pang of disappointment mingled with relief. He had to be careful, he knew that, especially after last time.

The Toad sipped at his coffee and scribbled something in the Moleskine notebook which lay open on the table in front of him. Pretender, thought Mark. Sham-merchant. Beguiler. The Toad claimed to be an academic, at work on some kind of thesis, though the details were vague. Something to do with the mutability of public creative spaces was how he’d explained it when Mark had overheard him talking to Hannah on the second week of his regular incursions into the cafe. I’d love to pick your brains some time, he’d told her, you must be an expert on this kind of thing, working here. She had laughed – only to be polite, Mark knew, not out of any real sympathy or attraction, it was her job to be nice to customers like The Toad – and had said, Well I could definitely tell you some stories. It was a brush-off, a way of ending

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