**
I imagine there is a pay phone right out of the frame. I imagine that 13816738918 is the number for “love”. I imagine the hand that wrote it was hurried, in that exuberant way that love makes your pulse race.
The bike owner is there now – at the phone. The bike is parked steady and straight, like an emotional resume. He’s tumbling quarters into the slot like they were pennies, hearing the cling-chang as they fall into the well with the other tokens of affection and longing. The world stops, the sidewalks are empty, the clouds change formation overhead, the noise of the city turns into a murmur.
Soon he will come back, I imagine. The world will start to move again and he will get on the bike and pedal off, having spoken to the beloved. Yes, I think 13816738918 is the number for love.
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