Night Angel

I pulled up to the gas station, the adrenaline slowly ebbing while the afterglow of taking my bike speeding down the highway lit my face.

I didn’t notice him until after I had already set the kick stand and made to walk into the gas station. It was the dark of night, and his black riding gear blended him right into the shadows where he leaned onto his bike.

He was smoking a cigarette, the delicate bud lighting his handsome face. His sharp eyes tracked me as I walked passed toward the doors.

Can’t say that didn’t have damn near the same effect as taking flight on the freeway. I’d happily let myself imagine him tonight, as he’d likely be gone at the end of his cigarette.

I hadn’t had my bike long. The recent purchase was a small act of rebellion done as an apology to my younger self, who had always tried to follow the rules and please the powers that be. Fuck those rules! I have finally grown my own wings. I reach for the drink that my younger self would have wanted, an Arizona Green Tea in the can still $.99. Not anything rebellious there, but a touch of innocence wasn’t so bad either.

When I walk back out, he is still there, dragging on another cigarette, seeming deep in thought.

I walk across the path of his vision like a black cat.

”Want a cigarette?” He asks without lifting his head.

I pause and give him a half turn, “I don’t smoke.”

“Ever?” He lifts his head and arches a brow. Damn, those are nice cheekbones and fine eyes.

I saunter over, “What’s the occasion?”

He hands me one of his menthols. I take it as he, in a gravely voice, commands, “Come here.” I lean in to his lifted cigarette with mine to my lips, and he lights mine with the bud of his own.

“Lost a family member, a four-legged one,” He whispers this to me, eyes downcast, before I can pull away with my fresh cig.

“Ah,” I breathe out somberly. “I know what that is like — such horrible pain.” I hold out my cigarette, “What was his name?”

“Bruce.”

“To Bruce, who now wanders the heavens in wait of his human friend.” I take a long drag and do my best not to cough. It has been a long while.

The man swallows hard and whispers out, “to Bruce,” before taking a drag of his own cig.

As he exhales, he lifts his face to the sky. The columns of his neck are strong, impressive. He is a well-built man.

“So you believe in heaven then. You really think I’ll make it?” He levels me with a playful stare. A man in sorrow, looking for distraction.

“I know there is a heaven; my cat is up there too, after all.” I take a much smaller pull of my cigarette this time before continuing, smoke coming out around my words, “It actually isn’t that hard to get into heaven. Religion just makes it sound that way so they can control us.”

“Ha!” A smile finally dances across his face. “Sounds like you’ve been there before.”

“And what if I had?”

“I would pray you weren’t a fallen angel come to take what’s left of my soul.”

“Oh?” I cock my head playfully, “I wouldn’t dare come between you and Bruce. Though I am sure your soul is quite tasty.”

His head dips, but not without the ghost of that lethal smile.

“How fast did you go?” I ask, taking a delicate pull of my cigarette.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t seeing anything. I felt the wind and something like a rush, but then nothing at all, and suddenly I was here with a box of menthols.” He glances back up at me, smile now boyishly lopsided, “I don’t smoke either.”

“Hm…” I kneel on both knees in front of him and crack open my tall can of tea. “Want some?” I offer up to him.

I could be mistaken, but I think he may be feeling something now as his eyes narrow, “Sure.” He takes the can from me for a long gulp and hands it back. Still on my knees, I do the same: motorcycles, cigarettes, and Arizona tea. The night air carries the tinge of gasoline as we look at each other in silence for a long moment, not much remaining of the menthols. I wish, like a photograph, I could capture this shared moment to experience again. There is melancholy, but there is also camaraderie. Two free souls just dealing with life as best as we can.

I finally move to stand. As I do, I lean in close to him and delicately kiss him right between his drawn brows. He doesn’t move, probably afraid to break the feeling of the moment.

“Ready to ride again?” I ask with a gentle smile, standing tall, but close.

Again, he swallows hard, but replies with light in his eyes that pierce deep into mine, “Yes.”

The Highway takes us somewhere, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we flew with a speed that could only be tracked by the roaring resounding in our wake.