I want you to take my hand and ask me to ride pillion, to reach around your waist, rest my cheek against the curve of your back, to feel the weight of you as we lean through every bend; left, right, then a final turn before we climb the slow hill out of town and catch the sea’s briny breath.
I want you to stop in the pine-sharp woods, to feel the heat from the engine, and hear the tick of it cooling as you lay your jacket on the ground beneath me.
I want to inhale the scent of you, sandalwood and engine oil, and feel something else, know something different, as your eyes and fingers melt my moon-pale skin.
What I already know is the ride back will feel faster, and everyone in the cafe will glance up
as the door clatters open. You’ll order two teas, and laugh with the boys when they ask where we’ve been.
But you don’t ask me to ride pillion.
Instead you pick up your helmet, touch my shoulder as you leave to spend the evening elsewhere, your final song still playing on the jukebox.
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