At the rear of the garage, under a paint-spattered tarpaulin, leaned the motorbike. Dust danced in thin shafts of light as he released it from its cover.
Rusted over. Goddammit.
He was going to ride it to Dover, and then jump the ferry. Black boots and black jacket. He was going to meet a girl, cherry lipped and charcoal eyed. He was going to taste the finest beer in Belgium and smoke the sweetest green in Amsterdam. He was going to climb mountains, cross deserts, shout out in the rain.
He was going to do a whole lot of things.