Figure eights of boredom.

As I fold laundry in my sunroom, I watch a boy carve slow figure eights into the hot street with his bike. He is alone and sweaty. He is bored. His tires make the sound of rubber on cement, a crunchy hiss. He cuts his eights tighter. He tries to pop a wheelie. Where are his thoughts as his body moves through the thick monotony and humidity? Maybe far away, somewhere cold and dangerous, somewhere with polar bears and infinite blue crevaces. Or maybe his mind is close, motionless, baking under his black bike helmet, lulled by the sound of his tires and the physics of his turns. Either way these stolen moments of quiet are good for the boy. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him. So I won’t.

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