Minneapolis.

II. Vegas.

She adjusts her boobs in the mirror, pulling her dress up just slightly, the pulling it back down to where it had been positioned just above R rating. She leans closer towards her reflection and wipes the corners of her mouth where lipstick has begun to clump together.

"Ready." She blurts, maintaining her gaze into her floor length twin. Our bodies flinch on the golden paisley patterned couch cushions unsure if she's asking or affirming. We exchange weary glances and raise to turn off the televised version of the Odyssey we'd use to distract us from the bright lights of the strip, leaking temptation in from open window occupying the far wall of the hotel room.

Minneapolis.

I.

It needed to bake longer.

My second serving of my first batch of cheesecake brownies is sitting to my right, resting on a mousepad that also holds three small notebooks. I'm sifting through them in attempts to piece together the last few weeks. My mind isn't cooperating. 5 minutes would have made all the difference. Three even. Chocolate milk and cheesecake brownies for breakfast is a great celebration of the independence of adulthood, and a reminder that the recently accumulated ten pounds should not have taken me by surprise.

After Missouri I dropped off the van in Minneapolis and caught a plane to Boston to share impromptu stories with an old friend and sneak in a $16 concert. Fall caught up with me as I fell asleep reading short stories in a park near the harbor. I awoke surrounded by tweed jackets walking dogs, students priding college logo'd sweatshirts, and the goosebumps on my arms- a braille telling of the end of summer. I flew back to Minneapolis and caught a plane to Vegas to bronze once more before snowfall.

St.Louis

The crack was loud. Instinctively heads snapped towards the direction of the crit. Instantly someone is running my way from their position against the gate.


That's your rider. Bike down.


Crowds aren't easy to run in. I reach the gate as a torn team kit circles round the far side of the course, medics attempting to steer him towards the awaiting ambulance as he makes way to our red tents. A race mechanic waves me through the gate, warning me of carbon splinters. I pick up the empty hullahoop of a destroyed front wheel, still dangling from his frame & carry it back through the crowd.


There are too many people waiting helplessly on our side of the ambulance doors. The crowd of former shop employees, old friends, & new fans take turns passing close to the window on tiptoes in attempts to see the carnage.


We pack quickly and head to the hospital.


The hospital is a new sort of terrifying that affirms my decision to avoid them until necessary. Not bleeding down the bone necessary, more of a that guy stabbed me and I think it might have caught an artery, sort of necessary; impending doom.


(Amy?
I'm not wiping your ass.
No. That's... no. I can't pull my pants up.
I walk upstairs. Despite injury, ever the fashionista, he's picked out a pair with a botton fly. I'm glad we've firmly established the sibling relationship in the past few months.
Anything else?
Eh, he hands me a stick of deoderant and we both laugh, shake our heads, and get to it.
Let's change those bandages.
They'll be fine today.
Nah, they're pretty soaked, let's change em.)


Eventually we retreat. The bedroom I've longed for all day seems less welcoming in an apartment alone. I don't attempt to wait up for the cab or phone call. Sleep finds me.

St.Louis.

"From this angle...no. Yes," his shoulders go limp and head shakes slowly, "that's a 54."

"Measure it," I call from behind my computer screen.
"Look at it."
"Measure it."
He walks to the kitchen and pulls a compact tape measure from his tool case which is sitting open between a canister of Teflon cooking utensils and a block of knives.

"That would be a top tube of a 54."
"Measure the seat tube."
"It's a 54," he humors me and does it anyway before bringing one hand up to wipe his face.

An uncomfortable laugh escapes from my direction and despite being the only two in the loft I'm left looking down the couch for someone to blame.

"I'm sorry. It's just, seriously? Of all things to go wrong."
"54."
"Yeah. Huh."
"He brought this here himself."
"Three weeks late."
"He was so proud, and now I have to tell him."
"I'm sure it's not a big deal."
His eyes snap towards me, "He packed his clothes into the box around it to make sure it wouldn't break."
"Huh."
"Think he'll notice when I'm not racing on it tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I answer swiftly before catching his face and adding, "But I bet it'll take a while, they're both black right?"
"Maybe I can just jack-fit it. Extra long stem..." his voice trails off.

We both know it won't work. That history doesn't bode well with bikes assembled by the rider in the early morning hours before a race. That riding an ill fitting $5,000 bike would only add insult to injury at the finish line rolling in behind all of the pro teams. That in a hometown ride, when you've been gone five months, even estranged relatives will appear clad with an armour of new cycling terms to use against you as to where your first mis-step was taken.

Free stuff only tastes good for so long before you get greedy.

St. Louis, MO. If you love it set it free.

I have a bed. A bedroom. With attached bath. A bedside table with outlets close enough to let me waste away prime sleeping hours with ramblings that went bottled during my 9 hour drive. An empty desk. A fully utensil'd kitchen with cupboards housing only energy supplements and electrolyte replacements.

I'm staying at a co-workers apartment that overlooks a small nook of downtown. The sheer joy of staying in a real home rather than the mundane hotel setting I've grown accustom to left me excited to retreat from the bar. As I curled up on the couch with my book I was shooed into "my room." The left overs of a man on the go clearly stacked into a corner bookshelf. Collared shirts neatly pressed hanging in the closet. An empty golf bag.

From first sight, I have little in common with the former tenant who is currently holed up in Georgia training for the CIA. Though I suppose if I were to move into a place anytime soon, it wouldn't look too much different. Empty pieces of what used to make up important focuses of my life would struggle to bring a room together. The focus of what's missing over what's present.