"No," she said. "He's my husband."
"I'm sorry," he said, and drove off.
"What the hell did he mean by that?" I shouted. But she had ridden away.
She left her bike outside our front door at night. We live on the first floor of a two-story apartment complex off Bay-view Drive. I assured her it was safe.
"May be I should bring it inside."
I thought she was kidding. "Where inside?" I said, grinning. We have a two-room apartment.
"The living room," she said.
"No way!" I said. "The bike stays out. Who would want it, anyway?" She didn't speak to me for two days.
One night one of the cars in our complex was burglarized. My heart leapt! There was hope! But that afternoon she came home with a lock and chain. She chained her bike to the gazebo by the swimming pool every night. One night I waited until she was asleep. I went outside, unlocked the bike and left it in the parking lot, certain it would be stolen.
At daybreak, I went outside to make sure it was gone. It was still there.