Unrequited, III

The whine of a Ducati is unmistakeable. Declan lived is a nice little neighborhood in South Austin, but what was perhaps the nicest was all the little curves and undulating hills here and there. He didn't condone reckless driving, but the course to his house from pretty much anything more than a quarter mile away was a thrilling drive.

The 696 shifted, increasing intensity. Leila was almost there, with the Chinese. His stomach growled in anticipation.

He sat next to the window, antipating Leila's route. If you looked to the west, you could see, through a patch in the limbs, the road that could lead you to Declan's house. He saw the blur of red flash through, followed by the slight pause of noise, then its eager return.

Declan's eyes were drawn to a photograph on his grandmother's antique shelf. In it, you could see Declan and Leila, wearing graduation gowns sitting astride matching red Ducati 696's. A present for our four years of hard work, Leila justified. Declan didn't need much justification; he remembered his Japanese classmates bragging about their brothers and sisters rides. The loud and gaudy paint jobs on the motorcycles always caught his eyes. Declan can always remember the day that Ren, Takumi's older brother, offered him a ride on his Suzuki Hayabusa. Money be damned, Declan didn't care that this dragon with two wheels was either stolen or paid with illicit money. The 500 horsepower beast catpured Declan into the realm of two-wheeled freedom.

Before he could realize it, Declan's typical stoicism had broken into the half-smile of old. The whine of the motorcycle faded into the whiteness of background noise, until it's abrupt absence startled Declan; Leila was here.