Free Loving Day by Mat Johnson

slight grinding wear on the foot pegs, but that’s it. It’s just like when I sold it to him. Nothing has touched this bike but dust. George has done an amazing job of taking care of it. George has done a better job of taking care of the bike than he has his marriage. George has done a
far
better job of this than he has with his marriage.
    “I’ll talk to him,” I tell her, and the fact that we both know I have nothing to offer George allows her to break the moment she created. Tosha puts the file down.
    “Are we going to talk, then? About it? About what happened? Or is it just going to hang out there?”
    “About what?” I shouldn’t have come here. I should have just left. I should have saved more money. I should have stuck out my marriage. I shouldn’t have come here.
    “About what? Warren, you take off twelve years ago and don’t write once? You don’t respond to one letter? I had to get your address from Sirleaf—which you know took multiple attempts because you know how he is—and you never even bothered to write back to me? You were supposed to be a groomsman in our wedding”—Tosha says “wedding,” and I hear her say “wedding,” and even though I don’t think of her that way anymore, the ghost of the me who did flashes in, then goes dark again—“but you just ran away! Like nearly five years of friendship didn’t matter anymore! You missed my kids being born! We were close!”
    “I’m sorry,” I think to preface before I say, “I did friend you on Facebook.” I did. And I looked at her pictures, and pictures of her kids, and her and George, a lot. I hit LIKE often too, which I feel right now should count for something, but I don’t mention this. I got over it. I came back. I ain’t staying but I came back.
    Tosha glares at me. Then she sighs and says, “Yes you did. And so did your wife. And it was good to see the pictures she posted. Even though you never bothered to message me back. And I love you like a brother. And that’s why I’m not going to smack the black off you for saying some stupid shit to me like ‘I friended you on Facebook.’ ”
    “Well thanks because I don’t have a lot of black left and I really don’t want to lose the rest through slapping.”
    “I need a friend right now,” Tosha says, and then she’s crying.
    I’m trapped in a hug again, surprisingly. Every time I want to escape someone starts hugging me.
    —
    The bike is a gorgeous monument to nostalgia over practicality. Working the clutch is like trying to negotiate with a drunken bill collector. I was wrong: George ignored this bike as badly as he did his wife. Under twenty miles per hour, I’m riding down Germantown Avenue on the cobblestones and the motorcycle is shaking like it’s scared of black people. Its roar bounces off the row houses, echoing accusingly back at me. The vibration feels like the bike’s plea for me to slow down, to rethink the whole movement idea, but I don’t. I’m late, supposed to be at my dad’s place before Sirleaf comes through, but I’m looking down at the ground whenever I can because I have no idea where George’s money went. He put a new, roar-enhancing muffler on the thing, but he attached it so poorly the main noise it’s making implies it’s about to fall. The tires are narrow and I’m trying to keep my front one out of the trolley grooves. I’m looking down on the ground right in front of me the whole time, which is dangerous but I have a scar on my right knee from getting my bicycle stuck in these tracks in fifth grade and I can’t help myself. I know I’m late, but I can feel that scar on my knee now, the dead skin miraculously itching as it rubs on the inside of my jeans.
    There’s somebody at the front gate. It’s not Sirleaf Day. It’s a white woman. It’s a white girl. My white girl. It’s my black girl who looks like a white girl with a tan and a bad hair day.
    “You shouldn’t be out here, on your own. It’s not safe,” I tell