Whistling Lick It Up through my teeth, self-absorbed and thinking of my footsteps exaggerated with echo, I heard a girl on a bike say hey. I correctly assumed she wasn't talking to me and kept my eyes low to my toetops. She rode the wrong way up a one way street on a cruiser bike. She skidded on the rain-darkened cement and wrapped her bike around a two hour parking sign. Across the street a young man leaned in the porch light. His hair was pillow-smashed, his eyes were blinking, and his glasses said, "we just got put on." His clothes were what I could only call house clothes: baggy trousers, no shoes, loose-necked t-shirt obviously reserved for bedding down. She skipped across the the shiny wet street in happy sandals that flipped and flopped, sounding between buildings. Her smile was one of "eeeee!" excitement like she'd been riding across country and hadn't seen him in weeks, when it was more than likely that she'd ridden from across town and probably saw him at lunch. Her skirt flowed and her arms flaled. Her backpack bounced and he smiled.