Thoughtful Lunch

Felix drives his motorcycle through the late afternoon traffic with ease, slowing down only when necessary, cutting corners like he's done it a thousand times—which he probably has. I cling to his jacket, half-terrified, half-laughing at the way an old man shakes his fist at us as we zoom past a market. Another grandma nearly drops her shopping bag and scolds Felix in a shrill voice that gets swallowed by the roar of the engine.

By the time we arrive at the Japanese restaurant not far from the abandoned garage, my heart is still racing. We park, he helps me get down from the bike. Felix takes off his helmet, then helps me with mine.

"Still like a fragile mushroom," he says with grin.

I punch his forearm lightly then we head inside. The place is cozy, warmly lit, and not too crowded. We sit by the window. I press my forehead to the glass for a moment, letting the cool surface calm me.