It was the first time I was on the back seat of a motorbike. Not exactly the very first, but it felt like it was. I’ve been educated while a child to keep distance from bikes, since my hometown’s rate of accidents involving this type of transportation used to be very high. But when he proposed me that ride, my dad’s endless advises seemed to have be blown away.
It was a cold night of February in Milan, exactly 17 days before his departure to Shanghai, and holding him from his back for nearly 15 minutes felt like the best feeling I could have ever experienced in life. The helmet holding the noise combined with the icy cold wind in our faces hid the sound of my deep breath, while some tears insisted in coming out of my eyes. He didn’t notice, luckily. But he was leaving. He would be leaving very soon, throwing himself into a completely different routine, really far from the magical 82 days since the day we’ve met for the very first time.
He makes me laugh, and keeping his body close to me while riding that bike was not different. I was trying to distract the insistent tears by playing a game with my hands against his chest, and for each timed movement I was doing, he was inventing new and weird sounds. So I was laughing, and tears were coming again, but those were happy tears.
The most intense and confused 15 minutes were there with me now. I was very close to him, but at the same time I was learning that the next 17 days would pass in the same speed he was using to ride that bike.
Photo: Palazzo Lombardia (Milan – February, 2015)