|Dreaming of wine and an artisan cheese platter.|
|Motorcyclists don't like waiting either.|
|I assume the bike is hers but maybe it's his.|
All bad things do come to an end, and I made it across Rt. 66 to Aspen Avenue, where I locked my bike to a sign post since every bike corral on the block was filled. It was a First Friday Art Walk night and the turn out looked great. I made my way over to Cuvee where Bob sat waiting for me and resisting all temptation to devour the cheese platter. I never would have shown that type of willpower! We related our day to one another over a split plate of the macaroni and cheese du jour. Delicious but rich, and Bob mistook my indigestion for anxiety about selling the house and the question of which grad program I'd be attending in the fall. The idea of getting back on my bike and pedaling anywhere was making me uncharacteristically sick. We instead walked to his office where I lay down on my side on the floor while he caught up on work for the coming week. In that perfect world I referred to earlier, we'd live in Amsterdam or Copenhagen where we'd have a bakfiets, and Bob could just deposit his illin' wife in the box and pedal her home, stopping only for a can of ginger ail to settle her tummy.
|Feeling that very rich mac and cheese?|
|When feeling woozy and biking in heavy traffic, I go with the helmet.|