She rode her mother’s giant steel cruiser bike from 1975, and while she loved its bulk, its vintage feel, its inefficiency, she’d always lusted after the sleek, light, easy-to-use road bikes designed for commutes around the city. He’d promised she could have his bicycle when he moved, but that had been a year and a half ago, during better days, on better terms. She wondered if that promise was still valid. She wondered if he’d leave without saying goodbye. She wondered if she’d wake up one morning to find it on the porch, waiting for her, a silent parting gift.