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I felt my breath start burning in my lungs as I mentally rewound the hit-the-town-for-errands preparations I’d done that morning. Light makeup. Blown out hair. Pink, cuffed short-shorts and a white cutesie top that had a little ruffle around the collar and capped sleeves. On my feet were pearlescent pink slim-strapped Havaianas. Oh God, I matched my bike. No! I matched my bike!
“Sweet ride,” he said, eyes on me. I looked to his chest. “Sorry?” He dumped the groceries on the counter. “The Z. Sweet.” Oh God. My car. And I was wearing white jeans and a white, fitted, scoop-necked tee. The last time, I matched my bike. This time, I matched my car. I matched my car!
She waved a hand at me. “Don’t take away my fun.” She smiled and leaned my way. “Every Friday, him in my yard, sweatin’ and mowin’ my lawn. Even old women need a thrill.” She settled back and closed her eyes. “That right there’s gonna be mine.” If I didn’t act like a klutzy, dorky idiot every time I was around him, I would be there every Friday to watch Raiden mow the lawn, too. Instead, I would do my best to be in Bangladesh.
“Don’t get ideas. That boy’s behind won’t mount a bike, precious. He might blow one up in a military exercise, but he’s not gonna ride alongside you while you mosey into town
I WAS CARRYING SPOT OUT of the vet to my bike, or more like struggling to keep upright under the burden of his weight, when my phone rang. I put him in the basket. He sat on his ample behind, said, “Meow” and faced forward, telling me he was ready to roll. You could have colored me stunned when Grams and I (well, mostly me, Grams just sat there offering suggestions) grappled for a half an hour trying to get Spot in his kitty carrier. This didn’t work and ended with Spot desperately shoving his kitty face into the corner of the latched screen door and pushing it open enough to force his fat cat
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onto a porch chair then the porch railing where he jumped into the basket of my bike, making the bike sway precariously. By a miracle, it held. Spot sat down, turned his head and stared at me.
Spot seemed absolutely fine in my basket. I tested this theory, rode around in Grams’s driveway awhile, then into town. He rode with me, happy as a clam, kitty nose pointed to the wind rushing through his fur.
Now I feel sorry for her.” “You should, baby. She’s a sad, lonely bitch who needs to eat a sandwich and get a life.”
