Cover

Avery routinely knit on her daily commute to the Senior Center. She would count the rows at every stop the bus made—not before—and unravel her work if she dropped a stitch. Some days, Alfred would collect her from the final bus stop outside what she called the Senile Center.

Today another man waited for her. He had bright blonde hair that made Avery think of the packets of to-go mustard sitting in her fridge. His cheekbones were high and stood out against his narrow face. The suit he wore clung to his legs in the way Avery had seen young skaters wear their pants. She guessed he was new here, a young boy looking for some extra money helping the old people of Toronto.

“Hold my scarf,” she said and handed him her half-unraveled knitting.

“Can I help you down, ma’am?” He smiled and she thought of her grandson. He lived in Ontario with his mother—she wouldn’t acknowledge that she was her daughter—and probably wore pants as tight as this young man.

When she stepped off the bus, her handbag caught on the door and the contents spilled on the asphalt. Three tubes of chrome-cased lipstick (brown, of course) rolled underneath the wheel along with a hair brush, pill container, bits of receipts from the last month, and a book. Avery’s doctor had warned her that quick movements might upset her hip, but she ducked down and threw the contents back into her handbag. Unfortunately, the young man was faster.

“Don’t forget the book—” He stared down at the cover, a well-endowed woman gripping the bare chest of a muscle-clad man. His surprise was evident of finding an amorous grandma.

“I can walk from here, thanks.” She grabbed the book and traced the cover before placing it in her bag. It was, after all, her favorite picture of herself.