like the underground; the streetfighter
A night spent underground. Taking apart and putting on, watching him. Making brackets from discarded metal, soldering wires with gas and knowing exactly which to put where. And it is 11 pm and it is done, the bike is finished, for the night. And the rain has come after a day of hot, hot sun. And she rides home on that new bike, halfway there between what-it-was and what-it-is-going-to-be, a torquey little ripper of a pig. And she loved riding home that night, to the newfound sound, to the way the wind felt and to the warm wet asphalt near midnight. To putting gas in a bike with no gauges. Everything is Beautiful.
Like 6 AM