Swerve

His helmet skidded across the asphalt. The vintage jacket became scuffed as he rolled to a stop. Rocks along the sidewalk scratched the body of the bike, parallel marks running together. From his pockets landed his phone, a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, some spare coins, a pair of sunglasses (now cracked), a creased business card, and a lengthy receipt that floated away in the wind. Standing, he brushed desert dust off his jeans and pushed his finger through a new hole in the fabric, white threads marking the injury. Pulling it back, he saw a little blood on his finger, then put it in his mouth.

No. 137