Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Cycling
“The man in the village knows bikes. We’ll throw it into
the Range Rover in the morning. He’s a locksmith
but there’s adequate overlap, so I understand.
I’ve phoned your parents and you have their
permission to stay the night.
I think we’ve both done a first-rate job
with your injuries. I won’t call the doctor.
He has gotten old and he panics. He’d insist
on hospital, which is nonsense.
Maria is ironing pajamas. You’ll swim in them but...
more champagne?
We’ll also look at that spot which tossed you. If you’re
to sue, make haste! My wife vows to leave nothing.
Now please stop looking guarded! I’m not
The Sheik of Araby.
(sings)
At night when you’re asleep
Into your tent I’ll creep.”
They both laugh. Except he was, and did.
Now she’s the new wife but without a hyphen
in her name. More modern, has kept her own.
The bike hangs on the garage wall, still unrepaired.
A pinch of her gross fat indicates to her it must
be made roadworthy.
But the new man in the village is retired as a Trek mechanic from The Tour de France. He wants to
fit her to a Domane. Says her dinged machine
worth five hundred towards it.
“Get it! Do!' husband exclaims. "Then you’ll
be able once more to peddle your ass
around the village!”
They laugh.
Labels: bicycle, divorce, marriage, Trek, village
