The traffic next to the studio was always crowded, people going to or from work. Or just going somewhere. Butchie watched this lazily while smoking a cigarette.
That's when he saw it, a motorbike speeding between the cars, fast, without a single stop.
Turn after turn, it seemed to dance between the cars. The motorbike roared down the straight road and was already further away, out of his sight.
Butchie stood leaning against the wall, with a cigarette between his fingers, and thought that there are some people who just fit into traffic. They are free and the motorbike allows them to maintain that freedom, like wild horses. They don't stop - and they don't have to.
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At the bloody traffic lights a man waited in his car. Fucking Red light, he had to wait, he hated waiting.
Butchie glanced to the side. The motorbike, the same one he'd seen from two days ago, was standing next to him and its driver was almost on top of him, looking at the lights. The viewfinder lifted. He saw those damn pretty eyes.
They were looking ahead with a visible joy in their eyes. Not like someone who needs to be somewhere. Butchie raised an eyebrow, envying a little of that freedom, but before he knew it, the motorbike flashed in front of him.
It was green and the drivers behind him, already honking at him. Idiots.
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On the fourth day he saw them again.
He was standing in the queue for a kebab. He had heard the engine before he saw them. Such a distinctive sound - his mind remembered it, the quality. They drove past the restaurant. As quickly as they appeared, they disappeared around the corner. Butchie cmoched appreciatively.
Men were increasingly wondering who was behind the wheel, they were really sexy in that whole costume. I wonder if they were without it too... His dirty thoughts were interrupted, however, by a shout that his kebab was ready.
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On a bloody Monday, with a hangover after the weekend, Butchie sat on the studio steps, picking at his sole with a spanner. A bloody stone had got between the soles.
A motorbike flashed past, with that peculiar looseness you can't mistake. Their helmet reflected the light of the sun like a beacon. Butchie looked behind him and thought only one thing: "Damn hot."
Damn he really needed to talk to them, but he had no way or when. They were always flashing somewhere. They were speeding.
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The motorbike that motorbike, that fucking motro he had been looking out for on the streets lately.
It was standing next to the studio, on the opposite street near the café, standing there and the driver next to it.
Leaning sideways against it, one leg leaning against the kerb the other against the machine, hands slipped into his jacket pockets. Helmet on his head as always, visor raised to watch the people.
The sun broke through the clouds, illuminating her helmet, all of me, like a fucking godlike being. They looked like they were waiting for something, but completely without tension. As if they were marking time.
Butchie froze. He pulled his nose, as if this sight had a smell and he wanted to remember it. He lacked courage now. Mu! Butchi Mofo, the best director, the head of this studio, a womaniser by nature, had run out of fucking tongue.
"-Go on-" chuckled Rico, leaning in beside him.
One of the studio directors, a good friend of Butchi's. The man, however, took him for a gay man by his behaviour.
"-Shut up.-" Butchie scolded him, but didn't turn his head, couldn't turn his head.
"-Seriously? You're standing there like a psychopath and they don't even know you exist.-" Rico replied.
Butchie squirmed. He felt like coming up. Say something simple, neutral, anything. A set about Skuter, maybe their awesome ride.
But his legs were like concrete and his heart was pounding like an old engine that only fires up once in a while. What if he looked? Or, worse - won't they look at all?, Will they run away?