Aero Made Of Iron
There was a path they took to get to the underground pub that night. Bikes bouncing on the cobblestone, like galloping horses of carbon fiber. Each crack making an even bigger, hollow echo as it diminished under the rubber tire. The shift itself? 7:30-1 am. The observations made in the journey before and after? Timeless. You see, it was in this 15-minute cycle ride that the world seemed, more or less, perfect. The stillness, the restfulness. The ease of the only thing you continuously hear is the gears of a simple machine turning with every stroke and your breath becoming almost rhythmic against the wind. It made perfect sense for those hours. For one of the two on this ride, it was the understanding that in this stillness the small moments are supposed to be appreciated. Tailcoats in the wind and icy breath fogging direct vision. That from this perspective, even with her vanishing knight and the metal steed only being temporary, the brittle darkness didn’t seem all that scary. Not like usual, at the very least. No, in fact, she had considered being naïve and riding through their graffiti Camelot for hours. She even considered at a point straying off the path to make the course last longer. He would stop you know. He always stopped in small glances to make sure she was all right. So, of course, he would stop. But she slowed her thinking; soft rain against her auburn hair and cold kissed cheeks, coaxing her to remain on the path. Time was not something you get to be greedy with. They both knew this; their dynamic had always been a balance of time up to this point. They rode quietly though, into the morning hours gradually darkening when the town was fast asleep, silent, with their metal horses clambering on and on.