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"For Y" by Stephen J. Golds

As I was leaving

her apartment one afternoon,

she took me by the hand and led me around

her building to the garage.

Showed me the motorbike

underneath a blue tarp there.

All sleek chrome

and mean intentions.

I was surprised.

She didn’t look the type.

She worked in an office and was a

saleswoman of some kind.

Medical equipment, I think.

She seemed so damn proud and really

looked something else

draped over the handlebars ,

smiling that pink lipped smile,

hair hanging down.

I really liked the idea that I was fucking

a girl who rode a motorbike.

But she never rode it once while

we were together. I didn’t know why.

She was one of the kindest

I had at that time.

Better than I deserved or needed.

We found each other in a dark place,

searching for a little bit of light.

Promising we were just using each other

to forget about the one before.

Seven months later, when I left her

for the one who almost killed me,

she cried hysterically and

I was surprised again.

She didn’t look the type.

I saw her once, a few months after,

riding past me on that motorbike.

All sleek chrome and

mean intentions.

She still seemed proud and was

still something else.

I held up my hand

in an apologetic kind of wave.

She gunned the throttle and was lost to me

in the night city traffic.

I liked to tell myself that she didn’t see me,

but I know much better by now.

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