They went out in her little Mustang instead. She loved that car, and made sure to get sole title to it in the divorce. It was aqua. She’d seen only one other in that color in all the years she’d owned it, and that was on the cross-country drive. The northern winters had not been kind to its poor body, but the V-8 engine still growled like a lion. And it was fast. Flying in her little Mustang didn’t scare her one bit.
He would ride to her parent’s house, where she was staying while in town, and leave the bike there. He grumbled about it, making sure it was safe and secure within the fencing. He muttered about riffraff coming around to steal it. It was a beautiful bike, black and gleaming with soft leather seats and silvery chrome accents. She laughed it off, saying nothing is going to happen. And nothing ever did happen, to the bike.
(Another small excerpt from my WIP I call: Alma)