we rode the bikes.
mine without brakes, hers newer.
each with rust,
found leaning against
the wall in the beach house
garage.
we rolled on
that Christmas eve, before
dark.
along the coastal highway.
a paved
path, hardly a soul
around.
houses shuttered,
a string of lights above
a gas station, blinking.
the wind rose. the ocean lay
grey and wild
past the sand dunes.
we pedaled, her in front,
me dragging my feet at each
corner.
her cheeks were red. hair free
and black
in the wind.
the taste of salt on our tongues.
we pedaled on and on.
there seemed no end to this ride.
only stopping at a bookstore
about to close.
for coffee and warmth,
for a book
I have yet to read,
but sill keep close.
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