The Bike Rider

Yesterday I stopped to smell a flower. It was purple, and at the border of each pedal was a string of white, as if lightly dipped in a pool of cream. I know nothing about flowers; it’s one of the many things I’d love to learn more about, but for now I simply appreciate the fact they make the world a prettier place.

I licked my lips, inhaled, and then a few feet ahead of me a man fell off of his bike. BANG, skidded to the ground, cut his left knee and even rolled a few times. So I moved towards him, away from the flower. I was about to bend down, see if there was anything I could do, but he quickly got up, brushing off debris and pretending nothing happened. He was obviously embarrassed of his fall, and therefore made no eye contact with me, regardless if I was only a few feet away, concerned and hovering.

I licked my lips, exhaled, releasing the smell of the flower I’d just taken. And the man limped. He pushed his bike until he was far, far away.

Someone told me something a few days ago I can’t get out of my head. “It’s amazing we’re alive. All the craziness in this world. It has to catch up with us.” This is by no means an original thought. On the contrary, it’s so ordinary that it’s easy to overlook.

So today I bought a book on flowers.

New Friend

I just watched someone’s entire life on facebook.

One of my coworkers, an elderly woman, friended me today. I’m not particularly close with her, but we’ve had pleasant conversations over the past year, most of which had to do with me being a writer.

“I wrote when I was younger,” she likes to say. “Poetry.”

And then she recommends an author or two.

Her facebook pictures go from present day back to her youth. Days where she's much younger than I am today. She’s maybe 19 in some: standing by lockers, holding umbrellas, and wearing dresses that are too long and puddle at her bare feet. She’s beautiful. Dancing, kissing a boy, standing at the bottom of a mountain. One of the pictures stuck out to me the most - she was in a kitchen, which looked like it belonged to an old cabin, cooking in a white t-shirt and short shorts. Long, long legs.

“Who wheres short shorts?!” someone commented; an old friend of hers, I’m assuming, since his profile picture was that of an old man.

She responded with a smiley face.

And the pictures went on. She aged, got married, had a baby, another baby, and slowly turned into the woman I know today: a pleasant old lady. Someone who still wears long dresses. Someone who is still beautiful and likes to talk with me about poetry.

I wouldn’t say I know her any better now. Of course I don’t, I’ve only seen pictures of her youth. But still, I can’t help but look at her differently. I know that in another world, or another time, we could have been more than just friendly coworkers who smile as they pass in a hall. And that would have been nice. Maybe we could have been best friends.

So yeah, I accepted her friend request.