I brought my bicycle to Michael's house last spring. We went for a nice ride on a warm day. Storm clouds were approaching. He was nervous about going out when the horizon looked so gray. But I was focused on the cool breeze and blue sky to the east. He stopped and took a phone call while I circled him, like a bored child. Soon we felt the drops. They polka dotted our tee shirts and pant legs as we gained speed. We returned to his house and locked the bicycles in the garage, where they remained for the rest of the year.
By now the air's gone out of the tires, the chain is getting rusty, brakes are shot. It's a dirty, dusty metaphor for our once-promising relationship. It's as good as forgotten to me, locked inside a garage with an old Model T that's out of gas and no one's really sure how to start. For someone who said he cared, he sure lost interest fast. As did I. I miss that bike but it was a symbol of my past, and there's a newer, smoother ride on my horizon.
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