10 Things I hate About Her (10 Things #1)

1.5 The Motorcycle

*Edited: 2019/11/20*

When I first bought the motorcycle, Naomi had refused to ride on the back. Apparently, the mistakes we made in the past followed us into the future. It was a shame that I had lost her trust as the bike was an absolute beauty. I had purchased the second-hand Yamaha with my savings, and there was much to brag about. It was painted a dark, haunting purple, and curved strokes of black added a touch of flavor. It turned well and its frame was sleek and light. I had wheeled it into her driveway, excitement coursing through my bones and rang her doorbell. She had said, "Hell no, I don't trust you driving anything with wheels." And slammed the door. I admit I had crashed a Go Kart into a lake when we were young children, but while I didn't have a license for a kart, I had one for my bike.

I rode said motorcycle for five months before I gained her trust. And after those five months without incidence, I had gained her faith. 

I leaned against pillar that held the roof over the veranda, phone in my hand, waiting for Naomi after ringing the doorbell a million times. I waited ten more minutes though we were already late for first period. She finally burst outside; her cheeks were flushed from rushing downstairs. Her hair curled neatly at the ends and draped her breast, which I tried not to stare at for too long. It was odd for a woman to stare at another woman's chest for longer than necessary, or rather, longer than natural. 

How long do straight women stare at each other's breast for? 

I couldn't remember.

"Sorry about being an ass yesterday," I said.

"I'm over it," she said, a bored expression on her face, then upon catching me watching her, she gave me a small smile.

I held out a white helmet. She took it gracefully and covered her auburn locks, locking the strap beneath her chin. Drops of sunlight glittered on her pale skin. It was mesmerizing, but we were running out of time, so I pried my eyes away.

I led her to the motorcycle. She got on behind me. The bike hummed softly, coming to life with a subtle jerk. She pinched my sides.

"You'll fall off," I said.

I knew she was upset with me when she could barely stand being around me. I placed my hands atop of hers­— her skin felt soft, silky— and dragged it around my waist. She leaned against my back. I felt the curvature of her breasts. As I steered the bike down the road, I told her, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I don't know what I was thinking. Forgive me?"

She stayed silent.

After what seemed like forever, she spoke over the wind, "You basically called me a slut."

"I didn't mean it like that. Having a lot of boyfriends doesn't make you a slut. It just means you're looking for the one, and you haven't found him yet."

Her voice was soft, almost carried away by the wind pressing against us. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"

I said, "No."

There was nothing wrong with her. As for me, well, that was a different story. All I could think about in that moment was taking off my helmet and kissing her in sinful delight.

We turned left at the lights. Suburban houses rushed by on either side; semi- detached brick buildings and a few singles. The traffic streamed alongside parked cars. Ten minutes later and the school appeared in our sights. Five floors of concrete and thick glass windows. The Canadian flag blew in the strong wind; its pole firmly planted in the midst of a circular patch of grass near the front. We turned into the entrance, passed a sign that read, Hugh Coleman Secondary School, and parked in the very back lot reserved for students under the shade of an overreaching oak tree.