Confidence

I rolled up to the red light. She was waiting.

Track stand. No wobble. Positioned at the front of queuing cars. Ready.

She rode a fixie. Her hair was done up tight. Her light blue frame was slim and cool blue. No helmet. Slender fingers wrapped around up-bars covered in brown grip tape.

Her hips were thrust out. Maybe for balance, maybe not. They said, clearly,

Yeah? What you got?

The lights changed. I set off after her but only for a fleeting moment: she was turning right. Nipped out before a van, and then was gone.

I carried on and marvelled. The very dust kicked up from her departing rear wheel oozed cool.

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