Wednesday, March 25, 2009

nick (adams) (the bicycle)

It wasn't until he picked it up and touched the curved spine of metal that he felt tears in the corners of his eyes. And he lifted it onto his shoulders, let the oil stain his fingers, trailed his feet through heavy mud. It felt like walking through the ocean, like drowning in miles of air. The night had left drops of moisture on the grass, and the sun's softness radiated through the flannel of his shirt. It took him forty-five minutes to walk two blocks.
It stayed in her living room for months, gathering the dust of a well-loved heirloom, and every time he went to see her he looked away, imagined it laying roots down, deep in the fabric of her carpet. She ran her hands along the arches, reached for horizons, when he was gone.

The man took it from his tired hands, placed it gently on the ground, gripped the handles. "I've lost three in as many years," the man said. "I'm sorry."

He pressed a cracked hand along a black seat. "It doesn't matter," he said. "He doesn't matter," he said.

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