I steered over to the public washroom, a freestanding hub of entrances and exits, to lean my bike against the cement-block wall. A bearded man standing under his ball cap gave me a dentist-approved smile. I micro-stepped toward him and said, “I forgot my lock.” He nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on your bike.” When I entered the building he stood beside my bike. Over a million bicycles not reported stolen get stolen annually. That’s a million owner-improved bikes, permanently disappeared. Some with custom-fitted saddles. Upgraded pedals and wheels. Hi-visibility rear-light for safety. Bottle cages and bell. Signature rock chip on the down tube, painted steady-handed blue. Lucky-Cat stem cap, a birthday present received last year. I exited the washroom. The bearded man twisted the brim of his ball cap over the back of his unsmiling neck. He straddled my bike, hunched forward and gripped the handlebars. I yelled and he yelled. “My bike!” On the pedals he stomped and angled my speeding bike between the public washroom and a timber-framed pond. His scum-water reflection …

Between bites of biryani and samosas, she divulged the edited version of her childhood. He nodded in agreement and sighed, his eyes deep, inky pools, in frames of jet lashes. Gazing into his right one she envisioned their baby daughter with his eyes, her red hair, and dimples, their Labrador and a terracotta brick house. In his left she saw heavy silence, raised voices, custody battles, siblings separated. “Fancy a drink?” he said as they zipped up jackets. “Not tonight, I’ve a deadline,” she said to his left eye, then hesitated. “Maybe next week?” she added to his right. “Okay,” he smiled, then something flashed across his face, as she glimpsed him frowning into her left eye. Ellen Townsend is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, 50-Word Stories and Paragraph Planet. Her stories have been broadcast on BBC Radio.