The helmet, the shoes, and the bike.

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Got home at a good time. Not too early in the afternoon, but not too late either. Played with my daughters. Dinner was a bowl of chili. It was good.

A shot of Pelinkovac, a can of beer. Then helmet, the shoes, and the bike. Bell. Sidis, and Fondriest. The door, the resounding click as I step in to the pedals. And then the wind in my face as I set sail.

I miss this.

A lap around the block, maybe two. Just a bit, my dear. Just a short while together. Before the books. The books can wait. The bastards. They can wait.

And they will, you know. They are always waiting. It’s like rust, it never sleeps. They call it “learning.” Shit. It’s a racket. There is always more one can do. Always one more resource to utilize. Always something I should be reading, something I should be reviewing, something I need to know.

The City smells of orange blossoms tonight. Mark once dated a girl who spoke of the Phoenix Springtime in that manner; oranges, blossoms and renewal.

The whole city smelled of orange blossoms, she said to me once. Mark roared, with this head back and balancing a bottle in his lap, she’s my woman! They were a good couple. For a while, anyway. Then his Art consumed them, as it would, I suppose. What else could it do, sit idly back and let her take him away. No. Art would fight. And Art did. And Art won.

I miss that guy sometimes. No so much his Art, though.

I pedal circles. Or, try to anyways. The legs remember, true, but they forget a little too. I see young couples in the park watching their children play. A girl turning into the drive way of her family’s home on her purple bicycle. Her tires are white. I like them. Her backpack sits up her shoulders, full of books. Dinner is already on the table, and she is late. I see the tanned Latino men arriving home in their trucks. Hard workers, that lot. Any man who says a Mexican is lazy is a lying son of a bitch. Those guys bust their asses. Each and every day. Then they come home to their kids who run across the lawn to greet them like conquering heroes.

I pass young Turks on their skateboards. They smirk at my helmet. It’s OK, you know, I don’t mind. I was once like them. Young, bullet proof, immortal. Now I am old and broken. I’ll keep my helmet, thank you very much. Waking up in the hospital once was enough.

Enough for a lifetime of surprises.

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