The thin petty man inside me, who sweats and has hands like delicate unfurled dragon wings, wishes that he hadn’t parked his bike next to the couple arguing in front of the hospital this morning, worrying that one will kick the bike idly or mangle it in their anger without a second thought. He thinks about how they will, perhaps, puncture the tires, and thinks nothing of their small children in strollers or set loose, scrambling over the pavement and benches, stopping, occasionally, to stare at their arguing gods.

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