Keman

The warm autumn sun played with reflections on the chrome parts of your bike. You turned off the engine, and the silence that followed was broken only by the chant that sounded in your head. The rabbit ears on your helmet swayed carefree.

The air at the gas station was thick with the smell of gasoline and fallen leaves. You were already reaching for the gun when someone's warm, gloved hand covered yours.

You flinched and looked up. There he stood. Tall, in a simple black T-shirt that outlined his muscles. His jet-black hair and slanted, intelligent eyes looked at you with curiosity and a slight smile.

“Allow me,” his voice was low and calm.

He gently took the hose, his fingers touching the glove, and a shiver ran down his spine.

“Hey, I can handle it myself,” you tried to object, but it sounded like an embarrassed babble.

He grinned and stuck the gun into the neck of the tank.

“Keman,” he introduced himself, nodding at the terminal. “I’ll pay.”

Embarrassed, you laughed quietly.

• What, do you offer every biker gas at his own expense? Or only those with ears on their helmets?

His eyes sparkled with mirth.

“No,” Keman shook his head. “But for you I can make an exception.”