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Jun. 7th, 2004 07:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3pipeproblemOdd drabble. Written with Alan in mind, of course. Who else would spend ten minutes thinking about a bike?
He couldn't remember when he'd gotten it, not exactly. Sort of the point.
He smoothed his hand over the scrape and paint chipped in its wake. The first thing he'd done was run for a cloth and polish until his arm hurt--he'd thought it would all smear away, somehow. It hadn't.
Maybe he'd known it wouldn't. It wasn't as though he'd never broken anything before.
A month ago, maybe. It hurt to look at it, because he could imagine it as it had been. Perfect. He paced around it, spun, cocked his head because at this certain angle it almost seemed like nothing had happened.
Fifteen minutes ago it had been perfect. If he could just go back fifteen minutes...Normally he didn't entertain thoughts like that, scoffed at sci-fi movie conceits and comic book fantasies, but for an instant it had seemed entirely plausible. Fifteen minutes and everything would be all right again. Everyone had a measley fifteen minutes to spare.
He paced into to the house, hollered a warning that he was home, paced back out to the garage to stare at it some more.
It wasn't the end of the world.
It was broken.
At least it was a clean gash--he was resorting to optimism now, it had to be bad--a nice, straight, steady tear in the flawlessly designed bike.
He guided it around in a circle, prepared for it to topple over at any moment even though the damage had been only superficial.
He stopped and with the sudden enthusiasm of someone who's hit on a truly desperate idea crouched down to the ground and looked at it closely, trailed a hand over it.
Maybe the damage was his own signature.
He couldn't remember when he'd gotten it, not exactly. Sort of the point.
He smoothed his hand over the scrape and paint chipped in its wake. The first thing he'd done was run for a cloth and polish until his arm hurt--he'd thought it would all smear away, somehow. It hadn't.
Maybe he'd known it wouldn't. It wasn't as though he'd never broken anything before.
A month ago, maybe. It hurt to look at it, because he could imagine it as it had been. Perfect. He paced around it, spun, cocked his head because at this certain angle it almost seemed like nothing had happened.
Fifteen minutes ago it had been perfect. If he could just go back fifteen minutes...Normally he didn't entertain thoughts like that, scoffed at sci-fi movie conceits and comic book fantasies, but for an instant it had seemed entirely plausible. Fifteen minutes and everything would be all right again. Everyone had a measley fifteen minutes to spare.
He paced into to the house, hollered a warning that he was home, paced back out to the garage to stare at it some more.
It wasn't the end of the world.
It was broken.
At least it was a clean gash--he was resorting to optimism now, it had to be bad--a nice, straight, steady tear in the flawlessly designed bike.
He guided it around in a circle, prepared for it to topple over at any moment even though the damage had been only superficial.
He stopped and with the sudden enthusiasm of someone who's hit on a truly desperate idea crouched down to the ground and looked at it closely, trailed a hand over it.
Maybe the damage was his own signature.
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chris & tobi
Date: 2004-06-07 06:53 pm (UTC)