I try to yell over to him. But the fierce wind breaks my voice and carries it down the narrow road.
I walk towards Bret, my head bent against the wind. I clutch my purchase in my left hand and wave at Bret wildly with my right. I grab his attention by yelling over the brutal gales. “You want a lift?”
He looks around the area, puzzled. “Where’s your car?”
“I don’t drive.”
“Then how—”
I hold up my cell phone. “I was going to call a taxi.”
Bret nods, but as he does it, he loses his grasp on the painting. I tumble forward, skidding along black ice, and reach out to rescue the picture. In my clumsiness, I stumble and slam into the cold, hard ground, feeling pain crawling up my lower back.
Looking up at a startled Bret, I pull a face: I am going to be sore tomorrow
Bret climbs off his bike and reaches down to help me up.
Grimacing, I hand Bret back his purchase.
“Are you all right?” he asks.