He fell in love with her.
She fell in love with love.
His name was Val, short for Valentin. She thought it perfect, karma, she had found her Valentino. He rode a motorcycle, hence the black leather jacket. He took her out on it.
She didn’t like the constriction of the helmet. It was heavy and she couldn’t see well. She didn’t like the speed and screamed as he made wicked turns, swaying, the pavement almost coming up to meet them. She clung to him for dear life, her arms tight around his slim waist. But mostly, she didn’t like the vulnerability, the openness, the lack of barrier between her and the rushing world. In her line of work, motorcyclists were known as organ donors.
(This is a bit from a book I’m writing.)