She thought it'd be a terrific test of our trust in each other. Going 60 and holding hands. We inched closer to each other on the open road in the desert. No one around. I reached first. Proving something. She turned her head. Smiled at me. I wish I could have seen her eyes beneath her sunglasses. That smile got closer. She reached her hand. Touched with tips of fingers. Steady. One hand holding fast to the bike. What about hers? Tugging with the tips of our fingers, eager to get that grasp. Her mane of blond hair whipping in the wind. She edged closer. Whipped too close for a second. I grabbed her arm. Almost too much. Her arm instinctively compensated for the error. She dashed back the other way. I still had her arm. Scared shitless. Her balance was mostly towards me now. Off the bike. Her arm couldn't stop the turn, so the bike shot right out from under her. And the rest I'm sure didn't happen. If it did I shouldn't remember. I won't. All I know is I held on. I kept my end of the stick and I promised to never let go. And now the nights are at home. It'll move on and I'll move abroad. I won't accept a test. The test should be endurance. Should be grace in motion. Should be every evening. You risk your life and lose everything. At home on the couch you risk only a bloated stomach from charred salmon. And at least there's an afghan to share. To warm.
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