Not quite night. Not quite day.
A time for magic.
The last light caught the gleam of handlebars.
A bicycle tossed away.
Painted white, adorned with flowers and tassels, it stands outside my bedroom window.
I rode it once.
Only the once.
Now the wheels refuse to move.
Late that night when the moon was a silver goblet I heard the sound of bicycle wheels spinning swiftly down the drive-way.
I discovered it had returned.
An old newspaper lay discarded in the basket.
Perfumed with the aroma of coffee and croissants.
The following night the sound of wheels slipping away into the darkness awoke me.
In the morning the basket contained a rose and a discarded ticket.
They had met at the Louvre.
He had given her a rose.
And, so it went.
Night after the whisper of wheels.
Each morning I would find a remembrance in the basket.
An envelope used to scratch a note.
A crumpled menu.
Hands reaching across the table.
She read to him until the darkness closed the words.
Around her neck he fastened the velvet ribbon.
Her face as lovely as the cameo she wore.
The music – their glorious music of love.
Tristan and Isolde – a medieval romantic tale of love – tragic love.
This morning a blue rose was fastened to the white bicycle.
An empty bottle of wine and two glasses filled the basket.
That night I had a dream
Of two people in love.
In the morning the basket held a scrap of paper with four words.
Au revoir mon ami.
Attached to note was a tiny heart.
When I turned to look the bicycle was gone.