My Lover

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? - W. Blake


The Tiger

This is Tiger, the best bike a girl could have. He's been slumbering in Chris's garage the whole time I've been romping around France, but now that I'm back, I got him souped up. He's ten years old, so he's getting up there. When I got him there was nary a scratch on him, and he was this brilliant blue. I took him home and immediately gave him a paint job. In this city, you pay for having a pretty bike... you pay the people who will eventually steal the bike off of you. I wrote "tiger" in nailpolish on the side, and made the bike mine with black spraypaint.

But Tiger never minded. Tiger's a slut for me. He knows I'm an excellent lover, that I know all his lines and moves, that I can stop on a nail, rip through traffic like a speeding bullet or sweeten down low for a curve... He knows I'll always come and get him, even when it seems too late.

He's not your straight up bike. He's a hybrid... small narrow tires on a light frame... a city bike. Large wheels, but small frame means light and fast. The guy at my bike shop was dissing it, calling it names, saying it was junk. I don't care. What's junk in his eyes is my purring satisfaction.