I am riding down Broadway. The ice has melted and I can bike again; without gloves, even. I am wearing a bike helmet and a snorkel jacket that may have been stolen from a seven-year-old Canadian boy, with a dorky strobe light strapped to my right arm. I sing a made-up song about snow.
The road is clear for blocks ahead, but I notice a car driving slowly beside me. The drivers window is down.
Can I ask you something, Miss?
I reach back to check my mudguard, which people have been warning me about all week.
I know, its broken
You know you are pretty, right?
Yes, very pretty, he continues cheerfully. I would like to go to bed with you.
Alas, I am not sleepy yet. As I turn left on Bleecker St. I wonder, has this approach ever worked for him? And if so, what did the happy couple do with her bike?