[37] Bicycle Story (Micro), Francine Witte

She zooms the streets. Near dusk, all velvet and silver, the scent of almond trees nearby. She is alive alive. Back there, the boy she knocked down. She said give that to me! When he didn’t move, she took his bicycle, but what she wanted was for him to take back the punch, the smudge of him calling her poor, dancing around her like a broken puppet in the lunchroom. The faces of the others like a field of bad tomatoes. Their giggles tinkling like a thousand coins.

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