the exhaust putters without a modicum of life. it cough and spits and practically shudders into stillness. he closes his eyes, doing that deep inhale where the nostrils flared and he tried to relax his shoulders, only to feel nothing but the surge of irritable fucking rage. the same which made him want to put a fist through a wall, boot to the metal, canvas to the corner of a brick house. instead, he cranes his head and neck up towards the sky like a fucking lizard trying to bask in it, a wrench to the handlebars for good measure as he swings his leg back over and sighs. so. deeply. right into the marrow of his bones. like a scene from a western movie, where the sun glints off the exhaust pipe in the wavering distance, this massachusetts town suddenly becoming an eastwood special with the approaching vehicle. except there are trees filling out and a spring wind and — a familiar figure? “ … you have got to be kidding me. ” gloved fingertips shove their way to the bridge of their nose, wobbling the piercings around, a groan to follow. hard to grapple with: some folks, you only see the back of them for the last time, your chest growing very tight, everything aching. a wave or a grunt, either way, you never expect to see them barrelling towards you, or make you feel like a kid again, car door slamming, sneakers flapping. excitement? now, as an adult, it feels like he's nothing but a fucking bundle of nerves. it stands him up, until he can lean, casual, against the seat of the bike and await judgement day. however that sounds. “ why you driving so damn fast, you got somebody chasing your ass again? ” last time, it was me.
