Sex On Wheels
I ride my bike past four or five different landscaping trucks on my daily five-mile jaunt. Some are emblazoned with terms involving plant life, others advertise their abilities, choosing words like "ultimate" as their bikini wearing bitch. The trucks, always accompanied by crews of men, usually white, sometimes Mexican, some, career waitresses pitied by the seventeen-year-olds who target their clientele with photocopied flyers designed in Microsoft Word. On average, they are captivated by my sweaty bouncing breasts in a seven-dollar cotton camisole from Kohl's department store with a built in bra, and a pair of black Adidas soccer shorts my mom bought me when I was thirteen, size medium. That's what does it for partially dehydrated males with middle-aged wives, and their American Pie watching teenage counterparts. I am their pedaling, sans-mole, Cindy Crawford. She isn't on the cover of US Weekly, but the marketing reps from Art Van Furniture are certain her selling ability includes couches.
I race up inclines, swerving for the squirrels that run in front of moving vehicles of any speed, even 10 mph, even sex on wheels. People wave at me, I don't wave back.
Sarah Smarch is a Diet Coke drinker and more than occasional cookie eater who edits other people's work more than writing her own. She will write the next great American novel or become an English teacher, whichever comes first.