A few hours ago, Dan and I biked around Central Park. Twice. I’ve managed to slip that little nugget of sports trivia into every conversation I’ve had since. I’m not one to go biking where there are people who I could potentially run over. I once skied into a group of children and have been scared of sporty crowds ever since. But today worked out beautifully. So beautifully in fact, that as I was riding along, I turned to Dan and said, “You know, I was just thinking. If we just had these bikes, and nothing else, we could go anywhere. We could just. . . go.“
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along,” he said.
“I guess I wasn’t listening,” I said.
“We really don’t need all that other stuff,” he said.
“I know!” I said. “Like our house, right?”
“Or anything else. Just a bike and a change of clothes. And maybe a toothbrush.”
“And a lip gloss or two.”
We rode a little longer. . .
“And a credit card.”
“And some sunscreen.”
“That would pretty much do it.”
“Yes siree. . .So basically we’d be like homeless,” I said.
“We’d always find a place to sleep.”
“Where though? Like a hotel?”
“What about the other times?”
“We’d have to play it by ear.”
We sat quietly under a tree in Sheep’s Meadow and I took off my shoes wondering if I didn’t need them anymore either. We sat there for quite a while. Long enough for me to start picturing Dan with a long beard and no shirt, tanned, and with one eye missing. A tattoo on his bald head. He’s riding his bike in front of me making the peace sign. I’m sticking my tongue through the area where my teeth used to be and swatting away the flies hovering over my dreads as I carefully follow him over state lines. I look down at my other hand to see if I need a manicure and notice that I appear to have rickets.
“We were just playing make believe back there when we were giving up all our stuff, right?”
“We were just talking, if that’s what you mean,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” I said, slipping my sneakers back on.