I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Sunday, 23 November 2014

DISPUTE (a.k.a. Part Four of My Stories in Honour of Short Story Week)

           Can it be called a domestic if both parties are outside and one of them is trying to mount a motorcycle? Dispute should cover it, I think.
            I came across the back end of a dispute today. The man was wearing a leather jacket which didn't really cry out 'Bad Boy' so much as it did 'Slick but Safe Biker'. The woman was practically lunging at him with her bleary eyes and wrestler arms. My guess is that their fun was over.
            The bike was a beautiful beast though I never heard it roar. The biker couldn't even raise his leg over it for the woman that was trying to drag him back indoors. They looked evenly matched in terms of upper body strength.
            I was on the other side of the road from the conversation or rather the competitive wailing and hissing and I never once thought of crossing, discreetly or otherwise. The dog was taking an age to pee and I was trying hard not to look directly at either of them. He might have told me to eff right off and she would probably have thrown the shoe that was gradually slipping off her foot.
            Funnily enough the bike was what my eyes kept gravitating towards. Not that I knew the make or was lusting after the sleek lines, it was the centrepiece of the whole tableau. Him almost on, her grabbing his shoulders: pause it and it all might as well have been the opposite case. Her pushing him down on the seat, him trying to get away. Strip off the engine, dull down the shape a bit, add safety wheels and you'd have my first bicycle.
            The man's movements were exactly like mine and the woman's my mother's. I was scared but mother wasn't. The woman was scared but the man wasn't. At least it didn't appear that way, he seemed more frustrated like mother was with me. The key word used in both scenarios was 'go' and the answer was a desperate refusal.
            It's amazing how memories join like that. Mum sat me on a bike and told me to just give it a try. Sitting me down was the only force she exerted. It went fine, all the wheels turned and it didn't capsize. A few weeks later the safety wheels came off and I didn't fall then either. I never really cycled again after that but I suppose I could do if the need arises.
            There'll be a park somewhere, a woman to keep up with, an intimate struggle that goes on for goodness knows how long. A split second to end it. I might even end up going on ahead.
            How selfish. I'm moving onto different tableaux without seeing the man and the woman off first. They started it, after all.
            Well off he went, she couldn't hold him forever. She shrieked out her trauma, wearing holes into the pavement with her fists. I wasn't sure when but the tears would obviously come shortly and I knew that it would be impolite to stick around to watch. Also the dog was long since done with his business and her shoe was now fully off her foot and within decent lobbing distance.
            I walked home. The first thing I did when I got back was ask mum about my old bike. She said we sold it a year back. Well, I suppose it had to go.

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