I took the wet pants and shirt I'd stripped out of the night before and hung them where the sun would dry them, then headed over to check out the bike...I'd been a Harley fan in my younger years. My affection for the machines had grown out of my nickname, which was a corruption of my name Harold Lee. Grandma Williams had called me Harley almost from the day I was born, and over the years, the rest of the family and then my friends had taken to calling me Harley as well. I'd even been called. Tricia Saratopia, an attractive and confident deli clerk from Hampton, New Hampshire stirred about, shifting uneasily in her bed slowly; almost slow motion, touching her face and her closed eyelids with her finger tips, softly stroking her thick eyebrows and freckled nose to feel the sensation of life. It was real. This was an unusual morning; unexpected, and now becoming very troublesome. “I wouldn’t have done what I did, oh wow! …Why?” Tricia repeated almost chanting “why, why” over and over. More

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