The 70

    Darpenter's bicycle hit a severe pothole in the road that knocked the gentle daydream out of his head. He had been imagining the most recent time he had spoken to his dearest friend on the phone, wondering if that was a life and appearance more chaotic than his own.
    The number 70 bus zoomed past him, rumbling northward to an obscure section of the city. Darpenter was glad it was gone, it being just another obstruction towards his own destination not as far away. Three more traffic lights and he would be there, yet such distance seemed an eternity upon a bicycle determined to slow the journey to a jog. His bike was an accident constantly waiting to happen: his wheels wobbled defiantly and his brakes did not respond to any firm grip. With the frequency that he rode Darpenter knew it was "when", not "if", that his bicycle would lead him into catastrophe. He thought of it as a certainty and nothing more.