in a dark corner across the tables; her strong face framed by the shadows of her long thick curls; she sits apart from the crowd
a cigarette stump clings to her full lips
has her boyfriend gone to the loo
the brown of her eyes penetrate him. is she inviting him. challenging him
he gulps down a mouthful beer in discomfort
coward
she has not got the beauty of a cover model; yet she is striking, especially in this place
she seems slightly unkept and has no make-up. her white t-shirt looks worn. her denim-jeans scuffed and torn
the t-shirt has a print on it he cannot read from here
is that a smile at him. ever so slightly
is in her eyes the promise of another heartache. or just the drug to whisk him away into an oblivion for ever-after
through the window is lined-up a row of cruisers in front of the bar; harleys mostly of course. his is the black softail with the screaming eagle pipes at the far end. he arrived late
and among them is parked a few japanese sportbikes with loud and silly cracker-jack colours on the plastic bodywork just like the leathers of their riders. the shame. they do not belong here
of course, she must be a pillion. but where is her boyfriend. and which cruiser is his. must be an old one. and probably japanese. why would she be with somebody like that
shall he go tell her he rides the real thing
her gaze stings him one more time. his eyes fall into his beer
she gets up
no wait
her t-shirt says that suzuki’s rule
she grabs a bright-colored leather jacket from behind her. dainese. and a helmet alike. it’s a shark. those long legs are booted in alpinestars. as is her racing gloves
no
a cracker-jack rider
she is outside
wait
i`m sorry
but she is on her bike already. she glances back. can she see him through the window
with a flick of the wrist she is off. it is a hayabusa. as fast and big as they come
idiot
as the revs climb she slips into third gear and hoist the front wheel a metre high and disappears over the hill
that was definitely no cruiser pillion
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