10/4/91
Motorcycles!
A broken nail dryer, humming, sounded like a motorcycle to my friend, Nicole.
"It's my heritage," I said.
"Motorcycles are in your blood," she said.
Is this a sign? I wondered as I walked up the street. I eyed a big Harley Davidson with black leather fringe, parked on the side of the street.
We both admired my new nails, polished fire engine red for tomorrow's wedding.
More Motorcycles 10/7
The cab made its way around Colombus Circle and as I turned to look at The Fountain, I saw something else. Rows of motorcycles stood parked on the pavement, slanting in the sun.
Another sign? I thought. I turned my head to look out the window on Seventh Avenue. A man was riding a small motorcycle, gliding between the taxis and trucks, cars and limosines.
Back in Brookline 10/8
I walked down the small familiar sidewalk, striding past the slower inhabitants, my sunglasses a shield between me and them. On the cement before me, lay an elastic, looped into a heart.
