A Public Love Letter

Dear Beatrice,

I know it has only been three weeks, but I’m not afraid anymore.  I love you.  People might judge us.  They might think that we “don’t go together,” or that you somehow “rob me of my masculinity.”  Something about my Y chromosome and your pink, effeminate charms evoke laughter, embarrassment, and more laughter.  When hordes of Indonesians guffaw as we gracefully lope by the Tlogowungu-Bapoh turn-off on those two elegant yet sturdy wheels of yours, I don’t hear them.  I don’t care about them.  I care about you.

What we have is pure, raw, unbridled chemistry.  When I look into that big, beaming headlight of yours, I know that somewhere in Southeast Asia someone with oil soaked hands, or an unfeeling machine, put you together, piece by piece, specially for me.  When I pop the key into your ignition and gently turn your right handlebar, when that puttering opens into the loud gurgle of your engine, the exhilaration is indescribable.  The heavens open and a beam of light falls upon your glistening, pink body.  An aria can be heard, faint but beautiful, in the distance.  I pat your side, and away we go, into the shimmering sunlight.  

I am looking forward to the day when we can ride together in a fourth of July parade.  I will put streamers on your handlebars.  We will blow kisses to the adoring public.  You will look beautiful.  You will shame those Barbie tricycles that try to outshine you, and you will make a mockery of the Hannah Montana backpacks that attempt to imitate your graceful shade of pink.

You are magical, Beatrice.  We are magical.  I want the world to know.

I love you,

J.T.

B and me.  2gether, 4ever.