I shouldn't leave her. I know that before I start the motorcycle and slip it into gear, before I fix the helmet under my chin and gun the engine. I know I shouldn't leave her, but I have to.
I thought the same when I rode out of Chicago, in the dark hours of the morning when nobody's there but the voices in my head. The same out of Boston and New York. There's no other way. There never is. The girls all call to me now, beautiful voices ringing in my ears as the wheels chase the next white line on the asphalt..
They call out that something is wrong, but I can't help loving all of them. Their parents never understand, so I make sure they don't find out. Not until after I'm gone. Then the whole torrid affair comes out. Sometimes it even makes the tabloids, if she's famous or influential enough. I'm not obsessive, I don't take clippings. But I do sometimes see the fallout on the tabloid covers.
I ride on as the sun lights the horizon, wondering where I will find another girl. After all, it's never the same if they have a pulse.