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I was waiting for my date to show up, when I heard the rumble of an engine in the distance. As soon as he pulled into my driveway, I barely registered the man in the helmet as someone I actually knew. My attention was elsewhere. My eyes were locked on his motorcycle. It was a matte-black cafe racer, with silver accents that caught the fading light in all the right places.
I found myself walking toward it before I realized what I was doing, as I reached out with my fingers hovered just inches from the tank. The surface was warm from the residual heat of the engine. It felt like touching something alive. I traced the line of the steel frame and sighed. It was a masterpiece, meant for speed and dominance, but I felt a strange, heady rush of desire. Not for the man who rode it, but for the machine itself.
