Member-only story
In the Grip of Lust
Bicycle tires, salt and pepper hair, and oh — those hands
I was 23 and they… they were ageless, wiry with salt and pepper in their hair. Their skin was just a tad bit leathery with age and wear. Grease stained the hands that maneuvered the deflated wheel of my bicycle off the rim.
They shook their head. This was the second time I’d visited the repair shop in a month, another nail had punctured the tire. They inserted the new tube in the old wheel. A voyeur, I watched without words.
Was it their strong hands or the way they knelt to fix the bicycle? Maybe it was the muscles in their thin arms that took my breath away. They were small and steady. We didn’t speak. I thanked them with a nod and paid, turned away. What could I possibly say? That night they were in my dreams, strong hands on soft skin.
When did you start looking like them?
Would I get a flat tire again? Once or twice I returned to the shop. They fixed my bike with few words and skilled hands. I admired that very short salt and pepper hair, my secret older crush.
The years faded over oceans, bringing me here sitting across from you. We share dumplings on a Saturday afternoon. When did you start looking like them? Was it last year or another past year? I never…
