20.

She cycles in the wet, in the thick of it. Her pants dampen, then go slack, pulling away from the lean flesh of her legs: sand clings to their bottoms. Why sand? It’s what lies on the street, arcs under her wheels. Her bicycle is dirty – so dirty she should clean it, instead of letting it sully the interiors of kind strangers’ cars. She will cycle again today. Again today it is raining. Cycling in the rain: proof of her stoicism, what sort of person she is. What she’s earned and deserves. How good she is.

Yesterday she saw a film about cyclists in Vancouver. They were cycling over the Lion’s Gate Bridge, which goes straight up. Swarming against the dark pavement like crawling insects on a hill. How ugly they looked swathed in their outdoor jackets, their helmet covers like puffy mushrooms. How grey the world was. How brave they were, braving rain. There is something perverse about them all, or must be, to choose this. To resist what is comfortable. To exercise their rights. To be wet, and ultimately to be wrong.