She went to all the hotspots. One place was famous for burritos, another for its knick-knacks. Wings were everywhere. Buffalo, buffalo. Statues of buffalo stood in front of buildings. Her new place was historic, and she woke up every morning on the highest floor, opening her windows. She hadn't had curtains since being a toddler. One cafe served pudding, and she ordered it and ate it, licking her spoon clean. She bought a bike and weaved, through traffic, on the street, the sidewalk. She wore a helmet and went fast and up and around. Losing her direction, but she never felt lost. She found a lake that really wasn't a lake. Man-made and no one was allowed to swim there. People ran and beeped and sang as if there were no ages. Her ex was in another country, and so was her last boyfriend and the other. Nothing was current. She grew up with cows. With prayers, her father screaming out to god then. Then, and even now, her mother kept warning.
Still—she rode, forgetting the stoplights.