or: maybe it’s his brother or his sister or his wife

From my balcony on the 12th floor, I can see a guy on the street across the railway tracks. He’s teaching his brother, or maybe it’s his sister, or maybe his wife, how to ride a motorbike.

She – I think it’s a she, I think I can see her skirt – starts too quickly and he runs alongside her. I can’t hear him, but I imagine he’s yelling out instructions. ‘Yes! No! Slow down! To the left!’ and he runs after her until she drives beyond him and turns the bike around.

Up and down the road she goes, each time with a little more confidence, a little more speed. She stops and he helps her with the beginning again, running behind her, like she’s a child on a bicycle, and he runs as she takes off! And he runs as she goes and goes and he runs and runs, waving his arms, his shirt pulling loose from his trousers.

They do this a few more times. He must be exhausted. And then he climbs on the bike behind her – yes, she’s a she. I can see her hijab – and she rides them both home.