One used to pick me up from the airport, on whatever motorcycle was working, my hip-shaped leathers on under his, a matryoshka doll of care. We’d each have a backpack, holding on tight for safety and because it was the thing to do.
Another still does sometimes, eye-corners crinkling, the easiest silence. The city always appearing around the same bend, a skyline of calm.
Wedged in the front of a bicycle’s cargo bucket, luggage on my lap, while one took us to a front-yard farm to play ukulele music.
Another took pictures as I rode off, capturing our overlapping liminal spaces.
One with temporal and signal precision to arrival doors and green lights, dive bombing down hills and through streets. Rapid-fire catch-up on passions and focus.
A surprise-pile of people under bags in a backseat, through the deserted streets and crunching deep snow of some city. A warm greeting after a stressful time.
One took my 10+hours off-zone self to a warm bed and a shower in their profane and sacred home.
Finding the metal angler fish to get to the private plane, to be taken to find a car covered in floppy disks stashed away in a parking lot, followed by blissful water and the first time we slept intertwined.
In the backseat, a tiny person knitting, another devising experiments to make explosions scientific. Me not holding your hand.
One dropped me off at an airport on one side of the country, and weeks later retrieved me from somewhere else, that same smile and hatchback somehow transported. Now accompanied by a very polite dog and a growing history.
When one held the art between us, wind rushing past, uncertain if the high was from the bike or from the fear.
I took the train from the plane, and another handed me a heavily caffeinated drink and a helmet.
From the backseat, staring at the headlong scar from home to departure, through radiation-thinned hair, a freckled abyss.
But usually it’s gruff drivers, or confusing transit, and I’m not sure I’m thrilled by the adventure any longer.