Sea Firefly

Tonight I point the bike toward the bay, the shoreline lights drawing long bright lines across the dark water. At the toll gate the bar drops and I check my pocket—no card tonight—so the midnight discount slips away and I pay the angry full price, four thousand in cash, and breathe out into the midnight. There's a burnout in my head and an over-rev in my heart. I hold the line anyway, one more twist of the throttle, the meter blacking out, my eyes aligned with the road.

Riding that momentum I miss the split, the parking sign sliding by before I can react, and the undersea tunnel swallows up the whole sky. Oh my God—it echoes off chrome and tile. My midsummer cami and skirt feel cold down here at midnight, colder than I planned for, but I breathe and smile. Long hair streaming in the wind, I stay steady inside, no rush in my mind, the toll already behind me turning into little sparks of time.

Then it hits me. If I sailed past the parking, the return gate is waiting, and I'll pay full price all over again—my cash exchanged for tears. But out over the bay that glowing beacon keeps pulling me home, my midnight star, my sea firefly. Even if I pass it, I'll catch its light on the return ride. So I let the night keep glowing and ride the flow back toward the shine.