Sunday, 18 July 2004 | In the face

I was still in my neighborhood when I noticed him riding his bike behind me, to my left, then pulling ahead. Since we kept making the same turns, it wasn't long before we were talking: about the best path to downtown Brooklyn, what it's like to be doored, about how I flew over my handlebars last September.

We rode slowly next to each other, becoming single file when a car approached from behind, and resuming our side-by-side conversation after it had passed. I reached my destination first and peeled away.

It still occurs to me how briefly people enter and leave my life, but it's much less profound than it used to be. Had we been ten years old, such an interaction might've justified becoming friends.

Less than five minutes after exchanging injury stories, while carrying my bike up a steep set of stairs, my front tire swung down in an arc and hit me squarely in the face, shoving my plastic sunglasses into my skin. My first thought, aside from recognizing the stinging pain as something significant, was that the woman walking by on the sidewalk below must think I'm a total idiot.

Since that moment, I've had a swollen face and a headache the size of Kilimanjaro. My head has become heavier and more fragile, like the head of a baby, and the slightest noise makes it throb—a pulse that, I imagine, spells out "shut up" in Morse code.

Several hours later. The cab driver on the way home showed concern, suggesting that I looked "distressed," a comment that surprised me. Had I been thinking with my face? I hope not. He made me confirm that I was fine, we exchanged a few words, and he told me several times to have "a better one," before I thanked him and walked away. Had we been ten years old, such an interaction might've justified becoming friends.

We'd have way too many friends if we behaved like we were ten.