The Story of Her Holding an Orange by Milos Bogetic Page A

was feeling good, and I swear, even if it was just for one damn second, I forgot about oranges.
    After 30 miles or so, I hit a bike trail that led directly to Hyannis. This was the homestretch, in my mind, because the bike trail was fairly flat and easy, so the last 20 miles wouldn’t take long. That was a good thing because the weather was getting progressively worse; heavy fog had set in and I could smell the rain coming. Visibility on the trail was only about 5 feet at best, but that didn’t matter because I was literally the only biker out there. I suppose that normal people don’t do long ass trips on rainy days.
    Halfway through the bike trail, I started noticing benches on the side. I’d been on this road several times before, but I had never noticed the benches. Either way, they were a good idea. The trail was long, and I guess everyone needs a break sometimes. About 7 miles into the trail, I thought I heard laughing. I squeezed my brakes and slid for a few feet on the slick trail before stopping and dismounting. I listened. Nothing. At that time, the fog was so thick, I couldn’t see more than few feet ahead of me, and rain had started coming down. I listened some more. Still nothing.
    At this point, you probably think I’m a fucking moron. Hey, I agree with you. Instead of staying at home, locked up and with a baseball bat in my hands, I decided to embark on this journey alone and with nothing but a couple of bucks in my pocket. I was simply calling for trouble. You have to try and understand my state of mind at the time, though. I was completely emotionally and mentally drained and reached the point of simply not giving a fuck. Or, at least, I thought so.
    I got back on my bike and started pedaling. A few minutes later, I heard the laughter again. I immediately assumed the worst. Since I didn’t know whether the noise was coming from ahead or behind me, I decided to keep going. Luckily, the fog cleared out a bit and visibility went up. A mile or so later, I saw a figure on a bench some hundred feet ahead. At that moment, a much louder, sinister laughter broke out, echoing through the area. I tried telling myself that it was just a biker who sat down to rest, but both you and I know that I wouldn’t be writing this if that were the case. 
    As I approached the laughing man, I could see more clearly that he was no biker. He wore something black. A few pedal strokes later it became obvious that the man was wearing a suit. A black suit, in a very old-fashioned style. As shivers started climbing up my spine, I sped up. I switched to the highest gear and started pedaling Armstrong style. I never took my eyes off of him, though. I noticed that the man had a top hat on, but no cane, which gave me just a tiny bit of relief; perhaps it’s just a random person walking, I lied to myself. When I got very close to him, I saw that his hands were lying empty in his lap, and there was no phone, newspaper, or any other entertainment around him that could possibly make him laugh. He was looking straight ahead of him, paying no attention to me.
    As I biked past him, he started laughing very loudly again. His eyes remained focused on a spot straight ahead of him, and I wasn’t sure why he was laughing, but I had a terrible feeling it was related to me. Not wanting to find out what this man’s deal was, I kept on pedaling. When I got a good distance ahead, I turned around and saw that he hadn’t moved an inch and was still staring somewhere in the distance. 
    I finally made it to Hyannis, cursing at myself for the stupidity of my actions. My plan was to get on a bus that would take me back to Provincetown, since 50 miles biked was more than enough for me. However, when I made it to the bus stop, I was in for an unpleasant surprise. The only two bike racks on the bus were already taken. The driver, who I assume had to deal with these situations before, denied my several pleas to let me inside the bus with the bike. He stated