Erin heard each distinct note in a bird’s song, the scrape of metal against concrete as her bike skidded away from her, the thud-bump of her body bouncing over the road, her leathers scudding into the gravel. Between the moment she knew she’d lost control of the bike and the moment she went airborne, she ran through John Donne’s “The Good-Morrow.” I wonder, by my truth … I’m in love with Jack Powell. Cerulean. That’s the name of the color of the sky. I’m head over heels in love with him. I told him … no … I gave him my word that this would just be casual. I gave him my word. I’m flying. Darkness. A sepia-toned tunnel opened suddenly to green feathered shapes drifted blurrily against blue, then darkness again. She strained toward the light widening through her visor to hear fuckfuckfuckfuck … don’tdieErin … staywithmesweetheart … * * * Jack’s bare head, hair cowlicked in seven different directions, his phone pressed to his ear as he hunkered down at her side.
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