{ Dachshund crossing }
The bike was obviously abandoned--leaned against a bench on the waterfront, tires distended and warped from months in an attic or basement or locked outside an apartment building after all best intentions had drained away, handle wraps frayed not from frequent use but disrepair. An hour before I had noticed it on my way to the park, made a note to pass back the same way to make sure no one had rightly claimed it. I could see vast potential: ten speed, chain in decent shape, all indications to free trips around Geneva, across the border, around the lake.
Out of the corner of my eye, a challenger. One bench over, eying me eying the bike.
Five minutes on, it's clear our intents are at odds. Ten minutes, it's unmistakable. Fifteen, open war. His female companion (I'd hazard to guess wife, but would guess sister as a reserve) is impatient, I'm sure he'll be the first to cave. Twenty, thirty minutes. There are only so many empty gazes at the lake or into the distance at a fabricated acquaintance that surely isn't coming that we can manage. I flip through every file on my camera, he fiddles with keys. Wife/sister taps her foot.
Forty-five. I'm sketched out, I've lost. I stand up to leave. Barely had I crossed the street before the pair move bench and take the prize. Match.
