by John Sheirer
Wrong
Sarah parked a block away and walked to the memorial for the cyclist killed last month. Artificial flowers wove through the spokes and laminated photographs of the deceased dangled from the handlebars. Middle-aged, wife and kids, an electrician who worked the lights for high school football games. The newspaper said everyone loved him. The police still had no leads.
After an appropriate time, Sarah returned to her car, pondering the memorial bicycle’s blue frame. It was too light, she knew. Before she drove away, she licked her thumb and wiped one last smudge of darker blue from her front bumper.