The Writing on the Wall

I once dated a guy because he rode a Ducati. At least, it seems now, this was his most attractive feature—also, the one that makes the relationship seem appropriate upon reflection. It was college and Joe was my first real “motorcycle boyfriend,” so I took complete advantage of the fact that we were living in Tucson, saddling up for long rides through the foothills, snaking through the desert mountains at sunset. He was older than me (nearly 30) and always wore dirty jeans and a leather jacket. His hair was short and thinning, and it never occurred to me then, but as I remember, his face was perceptibly asymmetrical. Continue reading “The Writing on the Wall”