Saddle

Someone has tied a Billa bag over the seat of a bicycle chained to the railing on our street, knotted under the nose the way you'd do a child's scarf.

It's been drizzling since dark, which was before five. Not rain enough to mention, just enough to bead on the handlebars, the bell, the chain they trusted to the railing.

Everything else on the bike is taking the weather. Only the part that will touch them has been thought of.

Tomorrow is a working day. At some grey hour they'll pull the knot, shake the bag, push it in a pocket, and sit down dry, a small thing someone arranged last night for the person they'd be in the morning.