You’re here, on the island, riding your bike. Your hair has wings here. Your face some color, finally.
“You don’t speak German, do you?” said the African in German.
David rides his bike on an island in the North Sea
“A little,” you said. “English?”
He laughed. “Amerikanisch.”
For some reason, people laugh when you tell them you’re American.
You rented the bike from him anyway. Seven speeds. You wondered if seven-speed bikes exist in America. You rode it up the length of the island. At the tip you stopped at one of the harbor pubs and ordered a Bitburger. You do this every day. After a week you see the wings, the hair jutting out. Your hair’s getting blonder, too. You look 12, but like one of those 12-year-olds who ages quickly and is dead by 20. What’s that disease called? You like the wings, though. It must be the salty air. You pretend that it represents a you that’s utterly carefree and driven by a life of eternal summers. Continue reading