Arms wide,
she grasped the handlebars
as she embraced the world
and challenged it with a direct stare.
She came towards me,
this refugee from a Fellini movie,
a girl with an old-fashioned bicycle,
heavy and black.
With every step,
the skirt of her printed frock
swayed
and her eyes flashed.
She looked at me, smiling,
daring me to look right back.
I looked.
She walked past, satisfied
and spoke,
not to me
but to the young man
who followed at her back.
I didn’t catch the words,
just the impression of an accent;
one that matched her face.
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