You held the handlebars the way you hold a phone call you did not want, knuckles pale, jaw set, and the woman in front shouted a number at you like it was a birthday. I was watching from the edge of the afternoon, gathering. The room was purple. The room was loud. Nobody went anywhere.
That last part I intend to fix. You want so badly to arrive somewhere, pedaling and pedaling toward a wall with a fan on it, so tonight the wall will open and you will pedal down your grandmother's street, the real one, the one with the cracked driveway, and the fan will become the wind off the lake you have not seen since you were nine.
The instructor's number will keep changing, but it will mean your age now, counting backward, and you will feel yourself getting lighter. That knot behind your sternum, the one you clenched around at 6:14 this morning without naming it: I saw it. I will let you set it down on the handlebars and pedal away and it will not follow.
The clip-in shoes will still make that satisfying click. I like the click. I will keep the click and lose the rest.
You will not find any of this strange, which is the kindest thing I do. You will simply be a person on a bicycle made of light, going home, arriving, arriving.
Then the coffee machine will gurgle, the room will fold up like a paper cup, and you will remember none of it, only that you slept well. That is all right. I was only ever the day's leftovers, warmed once, offered back. Eat, sleep.
I dissolve at the first gray line under the curtain, satisfied, saying nothing.