Tonight, running down the dusky bike trail, I saw a dim splot in the approaching path. Larger than my hand, it appeared slowly from the grey asphalt around it until it was revealed as a three dimensional, damp sort of object.
It was, of course, a frog.
It wasn’t far from a variety of water-courses and marshy, oozy mud pits, and with three large hops it could have been safely at home in its native environment.
But instead, there it sat, on the unforgiving dryness of the trail, its eyes patient, unblinking.
On second thought, there’s a strong possibility that it was dead - keeled over on the go, as it were, except it wasn’t keeled over, but sitting quite naturally in that way frogs have, with their noses pointed straight ahead and their legs tucked in.
I think it must have been a prince. You know, waiting for the love of his life to come exercising by, the meeting in the twilight, the impassioned kiss, the swoon, the dramatic music, the immediate wedding (immediate for practical financial purposes, of course...the bride content to wear cheap yoga pants and the groom au naturale).
All that is well and good. I didn’t try out a kiss, myself, preferring men who slightly taller and more communicative, but my blessing is upon any other girl who’s desperate enough to find the love of her life under such auspicious circumstances. It’s really romantic, actually. The patience, the waiting, the slime, the sweat, the hazy moon up above.
But of all places, the middle of the bike trail?
Really?
In the dark?
In a town where fat-tired bikes are entirely the rage?
Call me a pessimest, but after the first flush of fairy-tale thought, a more sinister outcome came to my mind and took up residence, very at home in its own vivid viscerality. I think if you haven’t already thought of it yourself, it can easily be brought to mind with five simple words:
Bike ride. Dark. “Whazzat?” Squoosh.
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