Stainless

STAINLESS

Black and silver, it leans forward even in repose.

It is mostly black.

The tank, the long seat, the narrow handlebars.

The grab bars and the foot pegs are black.

They are never used. They exist only to show her mother that this Beast, this Instrument of the Devil is safe for her Stainless Virgin Daughter to ride the back of.

Stainless wires and controls run in black guide tubes.

Each mirror shines silver from its black mount, its black rubberized housing.

The midnight rubber on the front and back is held in place by shiny stainless hoops, the black hubs suspended from the hoops by a web of thin stainless rods.

In motion, they will glitter.

The hub supports cross drilled stainless disks, gripped by knuckles all formed, forged and machined from stainless steel.

The huge black motor bulks low. Inside its secret darkness great pistons wait to ram tight oily holes.

Complex black shapes hint purpose.

Forward then aft, an impossibly sweet curve takes the swooping stainless trumpets, who wait to play their throaty shrieking sobbing songs.

It is silent as I approach, swing my leg over, sit, look back.

She locks the door, turns. Tight black leather. Black helmet. Black visor already down.

She walks slowly to me, leather creaking softly, pulling the big-lug stainless zippers closed, pulling the black leather gauntlet on to her white, unstained hand.

She straddles the machine, slides her arms around me. Tight.

I press the black button.

With a Sibian, trembling roar, we rush to the stainless bright day.