Every night, as the dense air flows over my diminutive pane, I hear him, revving out his R4 in the tin-din. That big-carb hero, shifting to third right at the edge of my garden, causing my hedge birds to quiver in their recluse.
Some nights, I wait for the bastard, hunkered down below the cement security of my moss-laden fence. I prepare my iPhone to catch his maniacal image before he disappears into the mysterious dark; but then think better of the whole thing, simply observing his hunched form as he races past.
And when the sun peaks up above the lilacs of April, I drink a warm cup of coffee; its steam swirling in a feeble vortex below my nose and above my cool hands. I open my kitchen window and hear the birds sing in slow arpeggio of a Northern France morn. Throwing the birds the baguette remnants of yesterday, I recall that morning, that car, and that baker, devout.
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