Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #24

Perfect days and perfect nights and perfect memories. Like candy melting on your tongue: sweet while it lasts, the taste lingering in your mind longer than the candy ever did. The craving is there but I know the best I can do is momentarily sate it with an incomplete

When you show it to her, you're a bit nervous. You fidget, shifting from foot to foot, and wipe your palms on your jeans. But this was your idea and that is your mode of transportation. The issue, though, is how people tend to treat you after they see it. Like you've become some sort of badass.

You're not.

So when you show her Baby Blue, your '86 Honda Rebel, you can't look at Clair. Instead, you study your bike. A couple dings in the side, sure, but besides that she's in good shape. (And those dings are your fault. The first time you tried to ride, under Tyler's tutelage, you popped the clutch and dropped it on yourself. You never did that again.)

When you finally pull your gaze towards Clair, she's grinning with unrestrained delight. Her eyes are all lit up, gleaming as bright as they did the night you first met. And those freckles...!

"God, M., she's beautiful." Clair runs her fingertips down the body of your motorcycle and tests the brake experimentally. Her smile overtakes her face and her eyes crinkle up.

A fierce pleasure warms your chest and settles under your heart. Your bike isn't the only one who's beautiful.

"Her name's Baby Blue," you say by way of explanation.

"Baby Blue." Clair tastes the name on her tongue. It sounds even better coming from her lips.

"Here," you say, opening the flap on one of the saddlebags. You gesture towards what Clair is holding, namely a paper bag containing four sandwiches and two Diet Cokes. A midnight picnic.

(Well, it's really a 10 PM picnic, but that doesn't have the same ring. So you pretend it's midnight.)

You only have one helmet, so you hand it to her. When she puts it on, you can see your reflection in the shield. Clear and bright, your eyes mirror hers. They shine, just as you know hers must beneath the helmet. And your cheeks flush, from the crispness of the night, from the pleasure of a clear sky and Clair's company. You have this thought that if she pulled off the helmet, her face would still reflect yours: identical grins and eyes flashing like city lights and pure adrenaline.

Instead, you give her a thumbs-up and climb onto Baby Blue. You start her up (she isn't a beast or anything, so she can't roar to life. It's about as small of a bike as you can get. But you fell in love with her and couldn't bear the thought of buying a bigger, flashier bike.)

So, with the engine revved up, Clair clambers behind you and onto the seat. She wraps her arms around you, and your heart-rate kicks up a notch, though not just because of Clair. No, because of the night and your bike and the city lights.

In that moment, you are free.

So you light down the freeway. Clair clings to you and her laughter resounds in your ears. The pair of you slice through the night on a motorcycle aimed at the stars. Glowing streetlamps and exits and cityscape give way to the sprawl of countryside.

The air is clearer here, light pollution fading and skyscrapers no longer looming overhead. You breathe freer here and Clair's heartbeats match yours (loud as drums, beating the quick staccato of alive and alive and alive.) You cruise down that highway, away from everything.

The night tastes of freedom and forevers.

The breeze teases your hair, tugging it from your ponytail. Your eyes stream from the whipping wind and the cool night. If you could see yourselves, you imagine you'd look a beautiful mess: hair tangled with wind, glimmering eyes and tear-streaked face. And giddiness jumping from under your skin like electricity or lightening.