The Cycle

They were college friends at least ten-years removed. One had gone to Wall Street and the other to some corner where rent was cheap, but that night any love lost seemed found at the bottom of a liquor bottle.

They were sharing a bike: Art at the pedals and Buttoned Down perched on the handlebars. I spied them crossing Second Avenue, swerving past a college girl in a junior high skirt. They both looked and, like Stacey from “Wayne’s World,” smacked into a parked car.

Legs didn’t break her stride.