[For Monica, who always rides on the back of his bike, there's nothing to keep the wind off her back. But that's fine. For her, the value of these moments lie in the back she can rest her body against, the waist to wrap her arms around, and the wind blowing past them. They move fast. Faster than she could ever go on her own feet, and for that short time she can pretend they're escaping, leaving it all behind to a future just as unknown but perhaps brighter than the murky bleakness ahead of them now.
It's all just an illusion, but people have to hold on to dreams sometimes, she thinks. She's as usual a little slower than necessary in peeling herself away and slipping off the bike.
Her place is a small apartment. It's not any better than the rest in this part of town, even if she does her best to keep it clean and comfortable. But she calls it home, because sometimes you're lucky to even have somewhere to go. She turns and smiles a little.] Thanks.
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It's all just an illusion, but people have to hold on to dreams sometimes, she thinks. She's as usual a little slower than necessary in peeling herself away and slipping off the bike.
Her place is a small apartment. It's not any better than the rest in this part of town, even if she does her best to keep it clean and comfortable. But she calls it home, because sometimes you're lucky to even have somewhere to go. She turns and smiles a little.] Thanks.