Ryker drives his bike like he has all the time in the world, and I wonder if he has always driven it so. It seems a bit far-fetched to me. But I am not vain enough to believe he is driving slowly so as not scare me. He could care less about little boring me.
We don’t talk on the short ride. And the silence enables me to just enjoy it.
The experience is nice and a bit exhilarating - freeing even - and I can say with certainty that I would go for a second ride, if he were to ask me another time, that is.
He parks in front of the building in which I live and I get off the bike and then unstrap the spare helmet and give it to him.
“Thank you,” I say in a chipper tone.
“You’re welcome,” is his answer.
I nod at him and then turn around, heading to the entrance of the building, and I
