The girl with the orange bicycle (1)

Every morning between 7:20 and 7:25 I go out of the house with my bicycle, just enough time to burst in the classroom for my first class. Our apartment building was directly next to a narrow street with cherry blossom trees on each side. In the springtime the trees painted the sky with light pink color, after some weeks the street was covered as well. And after more weeks they solely left a pink-brown mud on the ground, which was an airy pink carpet just shortly ago.

In the morning hours the street was full of adults who walked in similar speeds in the same direction. People in suits. Parents with babies. Children in grey school uniforms. Running elementary school kids with their colorful backpacks. The street finally led to a large space in front of the train station. Here the ways parted: most people went straight ahead, some made a turn. I turned to my left. It suddenly seemed so quiet without the abundant sounds. I could speed up from there. And let myself fall into my thoughts.  

Shortly before I reached the path to the forest, I had to cross a bridge. After a few weeks I realized that I always passed the same people briefly at the same time around half past seven. I found joy in making up stories about the backgrounds of these people.

An athletic woman with a neon yellow headband, mid-forties, with two tiny dachshunds. She always had a bored expression on her face, because she would love to walk a bit faster. She had dreamed of having two labradors. Her plan was crushed by her younger lover, who feared all kinds of dogs. Especially large ones. The final compromise after a very long-lasting discussion was taking in tiny dachshunds in their apartment.

An old gentleman with a walking stick. He was a former professor in the history of Southeast Asia. After his retirement, he refused to leave the house if not necessary. Recently, his daughter forced him to go try out a swimming class for elderly people. He may not like to admit it, but he starts enjoying these classes gradually.

A man with a toddler. The father seemed stressed and sweaty. Every morning, he was in a rush. If they were just slightly too late, the child would walk at his side. The child made three steps while the father made only one. If they were obviously too late, the father carried the toddler and ran. And how he ran! The child wore a yellow raincoat even if it was not raining. He would scream if his father told him that he shouldn’t wear it. And the stressed father would give up after some time because he would have to run faster otherwise.

I do not remember the first time I saw her with her orange bicycle. She was small, she looked my age, but I was significantly taller than her. And she had the most beautiful hair. I never made up a story about her, I would just enjoy the moment instead, while she passed me. She left behind a scent of her long straight black hair, which reminded me of a field full of colorful flowers, added by a touch of her perfume. Her perfume was sweet and tasted like vanilla.