The boy held up the miniature motorcycle.
“Did you really give him this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The Biker Leader looked toward the photograph.
“Because he kept stealing mine.”
The boy smiled.
A small thing.
Same crooked left corner.
The Biker Leader’s chest tightened.
His brother used to smile exactly like that.
The boy asked:
“Was Dad annoying?”
The Biker Leader laughed.
A real laugh this time.
“The worst.”
The child looked pleased.
His mother closed her eyes briefly.
Maybe hearing her husband described as alive.
Not saint.
Not memory.
Annoying little brother.
The Biker Leader asked:
“Can I buy you lunch?”
The mother immediately said:
“No.”
The boy said:
“Yes.”
They looked at each other.
The Older Biker turned away to hide a smile.
The mother sighed.
“You're working.”
“I get break.”
“In forty minutes.”
“I’m hungry now.”
“You're always hungry.”
The Biker Leader stood.
“I’m not asking for anything else.”
“Just food.”
She considered.
Then nodded once.
“Fine.”
Inside, air conditioning barely worked.
Nobody complained.
The five bikers filled one corner booth and two chairs.
The mother sat beside her son.
The Biker Leader sat opposite.
The miniature motorcycle rested between them on the table.
The boy ordered pancakes.
At one in the afternoon.
Nobody objected.
The Biker Leader ordered coffee.
The Older Biker ordered enough food for three men.
Conversation started badly.
Mostly silence.
The boy fixed that.
“Did Dad ride?”
The Biker Leader looked toward his mother.
She nodded.
Permission.
“Eventually.”
“What motorcycle?”
The Biker Leader smiled.
“First one?”
“Yes.”
“Awful thing.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“Why awful?”
“Wouldn't start when cold.”
“Wouldn't stop leaking oil when warm.”
“Seat was held together with tape.”
“Headlight worked when it felt spiritual.”
The boy laughed.
The Biker Leader continued.
“Your dad loved it.”
“What color?”
“Blue.”
“My dad hated blue.”
“Your dad claimed he hated blue after he sold it.”
The boy grinned.
His mother watched quietly.
The Biker Leader remembered things he had not spoken aloud in decades.
His brother learning to ride.
Dropping the clutch.
Launching straight through their mother’s flower bed.
The time both boys pushed a dead motorcycle three miles rather than admit they had ignored their father’s warning about fuel.
The toy motorcycle.
Their garage.
Their mother yelling through the kitchen window.
The boy listened as though collecting treasure.
The mother did too.
Eventually the child asked:
“Why didn't Dad talk about you?”
Everything stopped.
The Biker Leader looked toward the woman.