The world looked very different from the seat of his tandem bicycle, even if -- or maybe because -- he rode it alone. Leisure time was very important to him, a quiet man of about 39, and on most days he chose to spend it cycling through his sleepy little neighborhood, whose sidewalks, while pleasant to look at, were never anything but devoid of life. Now and then a car would pass by with hardly a sound, and the man made a calculated risk each time. Carefully, he'd take his non-dominant hand away from the brakes and give a small wave to the stone-faced driver, before quickly returning it to its orignal position lest he injure himself. No one ever waved back.

For a time, the man was convinced that it must have been because he wasn't seen. The first thing he did was to go out and purchase a tandem bike (his current model) in the hope that it would boast a more commanding visual presence. Apparently it did not. Not one to be defeated so easily, the man tried waving more and more aggressively, until the day he suffered a terrible fall and badly broke both of his legs. And then he tried no longer.

How bitter he became then, as he slowly recovered in his darkened house by himself. There was no mistaking it: his neighbors, in their wretched convertibles and SUVs, had seen him from the beginning. They chose not to wave back. Trapped and alone with his hideousness, the man surrendered to his base desires. He lived on paint chips and bathwater, he drank the blood of rats. He had no repreive from his madness, no comfort in the world...until he noticed her. His next-door neighbor, a widow whom life had not been kind to. The type of woman to possess a unique constitution he could identfy with and appreciate. Someone, no, the only one that could take pity on his soul.

She was a few years older than him, and would've been classically beautiful had things only turned out differently. She wore long floral-pattern dresses and painted what was left of her shattered nails canary yellow, and she'd plucked out all of her eyelashes. At eight past seven on Thursday nights, she'd strap on roller skates and drift around the first floor of her empty house, screaming in a tortured hellish rage directed at no one. The man watched her day and night, utterly transfixed by the things he saw. As he slowly regained use of his legs, he resolved to introduce himself as soon as he was able to. Just as soon, yes sir..but how?

Like himself, the widow was a recluse, a miserable, broken person. She never set foot outside, and it seemed she wouldn't open the door for anyone but the mailman. And then it hit him like a jolt: the mailman. He would impersonate the mailman in order to speak with her, and thereby confess his feelings. And then she would probably fellate him on the spot, and he'd joyously set fire to his bicycle and begin a new life with her. It was so simple that he slapped himself with a wet pool noodle for not thinking of it sooner. Then he watched her crazed antics with a newfound excitement, reassured by the knowledge that he would join her before long. The very thought drove him wild with desire, to the point where he decided to knock himself out with tranquilizers rather than face his impure urges, his fuck force. But that night, as well as the next three or four after it, his passion turned against him as he slept.

His dreams were plagued by scenes of the mailman having his way with the poor widow inside of his decrepit mailtruck, ravaging her body, corrupting her with his malfeasance. Emerging from this nightmare yet again with tears in his eyes, the man had reached his
limit. No more. With some strained effort, he dragged himself downstairs and opened the front door, unable to recall the last time he'd done even that much. This was the time. Once outside, he knew he couldn't falter. One after another, he pulled his useless legs over the threshold, down his porch, and across the front lawn to her house. The exertion relieved him of his bowels, giving him one last burst of strength. Desperate for air, the man staggered upright, clutching the railing of the
widow's porch. It was then that he saw the two of them.

The widow stood in her doorway, her slender arms at her sides, her roller-skates already on despite it being a few minutes early. She was lightly chatting with the mailman — or at least, A mailman — whose truck was nowhere to be found. A bicycle was burning a few feet away, the scent of which caused the man's legs to give out once more. His mouth tasted of iron, and though he tried his hardest to make out what the two people were saying, he couldn't hear them over the ringing in his ears. And then, with a grace that came as no surprise to him, the widow sank to her knees, freed the mailman of his trousers, and began to fellate him lovingly. The mailman turned and faced the cripple for a moment, who, in between choked sobs, waved his right hand feebly before losing control of his fine motor skills. But the mailman made no such gesture. Silently, he led the widow into the house and shut the door behind them.