Page 12 of Misadventures of a Biker

“He wasn’t an asshole at first. He kind of became one over time.”

The majority of men were assholes. Some had the ability to disguise the fact better than others. Once a man revealed his other-than-favorable self, I couldn’t understand why a woman would remain in that type of relationship.

I asked the inevitable. “Why did you stay?”

“I think women fear being single. So we tell ourselves it isn’t that bad. That it could be worse. That maybe something we did brought it on.”

“You didn’t make him an asshole. Believe me.”

“I know that now,” she said with a muted laugh. “Women are different than men. Once we’re committed to someone, it’s difficult to envision ourselves without them. We’re convinced it wouldn’t be any better with anyone else, so we put up with a lot of shit that we shouldn’t. The next thing we know, we’re being used, abused, taken advantage of, you name it. We just put up with it, telling ourselves that one day it’ll get better.”

“It didn’t get better?”

She shook her head. “It got worse.”

“So, you finally walked away?”

“I ran, actually.”

I chuckled, trying to make light of the situation. “Couldn’t get out of there fast enough, huh?”

An awkward silence followed. She gazed blankly at my computer monitor for most of it.

“He hit me,” she murmured.

I tried to contain my anger but suspected she could see right through the thin veil of indifference I was hiding behind.

Still looking away, she continued in a soft, monotone voice. “He’d pushed me a few times and he’d slapped me when we were arguing, but he’d never hit me. Then, one night, he did. With his fist—”

“Does he still live around here?” I asked, interrupting her midsentence. My inner self exploded with rage. Outwardly, I doubted I hid my anger totally. I did the best I was able.

“He… Yeah. He’s got a new girlfriend, and he lives in Bonita Beach…” She paused and gave me a serious look. “Don’t even think about doing anything. I’m over him. It’s been six months. I’m over it.” She managed a faint smile. “What about you?”

I wasn’t. I never would be. I fought to contain myself. “Am I over it?”

“No.” She leaned onto the edge of the elevated countertop. “I meant do you eat your oysters alone?”

“I do.”

“Why?” she asked. “Are you an asshole?”

“All men are assholes.”

“You don’t seem like an asshole.”

“I hide it well,” I said. “I limit expressing my physical frustrations to men, and I vent my emotional frustrations on my bike. In the end, that leaves everyone else with a decent guy to be around.”

“You’re better than decent,” she said.

I wasn’t, but there was no value in arguing about it. I needed everyone at work to believe I was one of the good guys. Especially Kate. Still angry about the man who hit her, I forced a smile. “Thanks.”

“Does riding your motorcycle really help? Does it, like, I don’t know… Calm you?”

I’d had a motorcycle my entire life. Without it, I’d be a disaster. While most men in prison yearned for a woman, a thick steak, a cup of real coffee, or their favorite fast food, I wanted nothing more than a few hundred miles of open road and a full tank of gas.

“It doesn’t matter how bad things get,” I replied. “There’s not much a ride on that bike won’t fix. A thirty-minute cruise will squash an entire day of frustrations.”

She leaned away from the desk and brushed the wrinkles from her dress. “Are you really an asshole?”