Ghosts [minutelovestory #73]

Posted by on Apr 18, 2013 in minutelovestories | No Comments

Ghost bikes occupied most of his weekends. Creating skeletons scattered throughout the city as runes to remind us. It was the only means he could find, it seemed, to assuage the guilt. Everything had gone quiet then, like a Fellini film, the gnarl of traffic and bleating horns buried in that moment, burrowing into his body through every tight orifice and captured underneath his skin, mummified and bound. The bike’s spokes slowed as the momentum ceased. Blink and the world readjusts itself.

He’s spraying his fourth bike of the day. He’s wearing a mask and gloves. Grips and brakes are in a pile by his feet and it’s late afternoon and he hasn’t eaten lunch, working through hunger with a sincere ferocity others know to respect. With the glow of the sun behind her, she is unreal, stepping off the sidewalk into the makeshift workshop. Underneath her threadbare shirt, above her heart, rests a permanent eulogy.

This is another cinematic moment, but nothing decelerates. The whirr of a band saw catapults, the sunlight unnaturally incandescent, the white spray paint turns into blinding snow, reminding him of Maine blizzards, his childhood between snowdrifts and summer dandelions, the world growing alive again.