November 15, 2005

They tried to maim me like this:

Night. Rain. At midnight London’s streets are wrapped in long slivers of wet light, pieces of fabric stolen from dreams. The bars are open and ten thousand boys and girls descend upon the city to fuck. Noise. Commotion. Cops. Cabs. On busy nights, you’ll see at least three paddywagons parked outside popular bars: “Go directly to Jail,” they say. “Do not pass GO.”

I wasn’t there to party. I was exhausted after finishing work, so I got on my bike and glided home through the drenched streets. I was drifting through an intersection, my light green, when a black cab appeared out of nowhere and ever so gently bumped right into me.

I believe I screamed like a little girl when the metal of my bike scraped that front bumper. My muscles tensed on the handlebar and the pavement seemed so close, so hard, so wet. Yet somehow, somehow, the cab stopped before completely demolishing me, and like a tight-rope walker I regained my balance and continued to drift through the rain, my body shaken with fear.