It was the day before yesterday.
Standing behind him, she was observing his hands.
Held in front of him was her airless bike, upside down, as he was trying to find the right location in the spoke to reset the air valve. But all she could see were those hands, going in circles along the flat tire...once, twice, thrice...searching, moving its airless body to adapt to the right position...the musty smell of the bike garage, the sound of the elevators, now clunking up, then down and then clunking up again...the blue-steel watch snug against his busy wrist, the creases in her favorite shirt, created by his slightly bent posture...
Click. Why, he found it.
Air being pumped in ...rhythm in motion, changing, adapting to the space within...finding, filling, to the point when it can fill no more...
...she couldn't see his face.
Just the motion of his hands.
And then with one strong and swift jolt he turns the bike up on its stand. It stands proudly, chained to its slot, its round rubber legs now alive with air.
But hers have turned limp.
What can i say, sure as hell i still am, drunk on you, mon petit roi.
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