She is a blur as she pedals past, wrong way down the one way street. I see enough to catch colorful hints of interesting skin art, glints of silver around her face suggesting numerous piercings, more than would normally be ventured. She swerves at the end of the street to avoid a car coming too fast. He stops short of hitting her, but close enough to trigger the anger, the almighty street rage of the reckless. Her rage. Her rage spreads like fire over the hood of his car and consumes him. She is off her bike, screaming, venting her self-righteous fury over what cannot be his fault. God, but her legs are beautiful. In an instant her rage overtakes me as well. Images. In my mind, she throws me against the wall, grabs a handful of hair, jerks my head back. No hesitation, no guilt, and no remorse. One predatory glare and she bites my bottom lip... hard. I want her, or, the reverie shakes off, no. The fantasy is gone. I want to be her. I want to access that of me that is that wild and ill-tempered and uninhibited. Magnificent, fit, experimental, and unhinged. I want your mojo, girl. I own that want.
Your power will be mine.