Boys like girls in heels riding a bicycle. Deidra is on her way to meet one.  

Her fishnets are mail order from an English manufacturer, and the leather of the vintage black stilettos is so soft she barely has trouble walking in them except for when she nearly rolled her ankle while getting on her bike.  

Though named for the woman who rages over her broken heart, Deidra is far from that today. On her grandmother’s old Steyr bike, she rides the 30, wheels spinning on asphalt. 

Riding the Steyr is simple. The brake handle is on the right handlebar. It was originally black, but Deidra stripped it down and painted it bright red, taking care not to cover its classic features.  

Fortunately, the grade remained steady; the 30 only began to rise and curve through the mountain range ten miles beyond Kendell’s home. 

Kendell was from the Capitol. His family took over a small farmstead in the narrow valley several miles away on the 30.  

Route 30 was a minor arterial highway that wound through the mountains, beginning at the Ezikel Roundabout, outside the city limits, and terminating at a crossroads near a small community formerly settled by Mennonites but now populated chiefly by Capitol residents wealthy enough to take in the relative isolation and temperate climate. 

Although its proper name is Chosen Friendship Road, everyone refers to the asphalt track as the 30. 

This was a number with some vague significance from a now-obscure American business. This is how the story originated, based on the family from the North who settled in the area in the middle of the last century when the Mennonites began moving deeper into the mountain range. 

As Deidra pedals toward the farmstead, she takes in the scent of the long rows of pines.  

Deidra wears a cloth polka dot clip holding her wavy hair from her face. She has two necklaces down her waist, one black and one white. Opposites attract, she thinks. 

The morning is overcast and cool, so she has a white Angora button-down over her Danskin top and an old red frilly ruffle skirt that dates from her mother’s dancer days. 

Deidra pushes the brake when making the final turn before seeing the red stucco roof of the farmstead. Because of additions, the building can be mistaken for a small villa, albeit simple. She sees Kendell by the entrance, waiting. 

She slows to enter the gravel path and glides downward toward him, braking the bike. Deidra gets off, lifting the wicker basket from the front. Kendell walks up and offers to take it from her to carry himself. Pleased by his courteousness, they share a smile in greeting. When he turns away to lead her into the farmstead, Deidra thinks of things courtly and romantic. 

The morning dew makes it challenging to eat on the grass, so they choose to picnic at the kitchen table. Kendell tells her the family is back in the Capitol, leaving him alone to watch things over for the weekend. She spreads a blue-checkered tablecloth over the stained oak table, and they begin setting up the dishes and food Deidra prepared. 

After coffee is brewed, they eat and enjoy Deidra’s creations: Corn biscuits with Irish butter and marmalade, sliced salami and mozzarella, with sides of blackberries she had picked from behind her home. Simple, but delicious. 

Afterward, Kendell takes Deidra around the house. Their hands brush until Deidra finally takes his as they go up the stairs to the bedroom. 

Kendell’s room is spare, with no decorations, but the stucco walls to Deidra are engaging enough with their uneven textures and betrayed shadows. 

She runs her fingers against them. Cold, yet comforting—offering a place called home. 

Deidra notices the camera on the aged dresser. 

“You take pictures.” 

“Always.” Kendell picks the camera up and shows it to her, explaining its history, telling her this belonged to his grandfather and that it was a rare model from Germany. A rangefinder, he says. 

“Would you like to take my picture?” Deidra points to the double clasped window in his room. Without hesitation, she climbs and leans against the glass panes, folding her hands across her lap.  

“You look comfortable. Like you’ve been here before,” Kendell says. 

She looks away, staring toward the forest behind the garden wall. Kendell takes his time and takes a few photos.  

“There, I trust you now,” says Deidra, holding her hand for Kendell to help her down. “Be careful. I do not want to ladder my fishnets.” 

After dishes are washed, leftovers wrapped, and put away in Deirda’s basket, Kendell offers to ride with her on the 30. 

His bike is as old as Deidra’s, though in better condition. They ride together on the 30 until they reach the incline, indicating they will soon be in the mountains. 

Deidra suggests taking a side road that hugs the mountainside that leads toward a cove. He nods and follows when she turns her Steyr to the right. 

When Kendell did not respond to their calls, the parents return to the farmstead. 

Months later, the father develops the film in the camera, hoping to find an answer. 

While looking at the prints, the last four disturb him. They are of Kendell’s bedroom window, his reflection on the glass. 

Mike Lee is a writer and editor at a trade union in New York City. His work appears in or is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys, The Opiate, Bright Flash Literary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, BULL, and many others. His story collection, The Northern Line, is available on Amazon.