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July 2013, vol 9, no 2

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Klarissa Fitzpatrick


He saw, in the flash of her porch light, the pale yellow of her floral blouse and hair as he coasted past. She was on her tip-toes, turning -- her thin legs in black slacks stemming from hips so wide, they would have been comical if they hadn't been so sexy.

Smelling exhaust fumes from the truck in front of him, he faced forward again. His ring finger, encircled by a pale tan line, rested on the brake. His bike's front tires trembled on gravel scattered across the asphalt as he slanted sideways through the intersection, legs pumping. Then he felt the sudden return of gravity, his bike tipping out from under him.

Tangled between the bike's wheels, he stared at the sky until the stars began whipping back and forth in nauseous swoops. He turned his head and opened dilated eyes to see

flower stems swaying
among weeds
in pavement cracks

and thin legs in black slacks pumping up and down as they ran to him.