I’ll never forget the first time I saw him. He followed the storm. In fact, he’d been soaked by it as he rolled
into town on one sweet Ducati bike. His
reddish brown hair was plastered to his head.
The white t-shirt was a transparent second skin molded to a chest I’d
only ever seen in magazines and on TV.
Jeans that were faded to perfection and black leather biker’s boots
completed the ensemble.
He coasted into the parking lot of the park in which I’d
been watching the storm. With an inhuman
grace, he dropped the stand and swung one long leg over the bike. He loped over to me. I almost pinched myself when he started to
speak. I’m still not sure if it was
because he actually deigned to talk to me or if the sound of that rich bass as
it caressed each word was too mesmerizing.
“I’m looking for some directions. I saw you here and thought you might be able
to help me out.”
I blinked a few times as my suddenly hormone drenched brain
processed his words, “Sure. Where’re ya
headed?”
He hesitated for a second which piqued my curiosity as well,
“I’m not entirely sure. I’m trying to
track the storm that just passed through and I’d rather not follow it down the
freeway. Gets a little dangerous on my
bike at times so I’d rather take some back roads.”
There was something about how he answered that simple,
innocuous question that didn’t sit right with me. I took a deep breath to clear my mind of the
fantasies that were playing out there. I
needed a few seconds to really study him so I pretended to be thinking of directions
for him.
I started to get the feeling that either this guy was a
Weather Rider like me or he was something else not entirely normal. The only question was which one was he. As I opened my mouth to speak I saw the look
in his eyes change. He seemed to realize
I knew more than I should.
And I was completely isolated in the park, thanks to the
storm.
