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evident. The forest is thick and silent with no bicyclists or carriages, and the hot sweat of work becomes easy to forget. The only reminder is the thick perfume on my hands, and I decide never to buy orchids for any reason in my lifetime or stoop to smell them wherever they may be. The afternoon is now mine, and I have a lead on a bicycle. Tom, one of the cooks from the restaurant, said he stashed his old bike at the airport last year, and this year returned with a new one. Over six feet tall, Tom had winked at me from behind the hot line this morning.
    â€˜It’s yours if you want it,’ he said.
    Then, seemingly to himself: ‘What I wouldn’t give to be a bike seat some days.’
    I walk through the forest following the arrow-shaped ‘airport’ signs, until the paved path turns to grass. There is a long field and one building. The two runways are inexplicably numbered ‘eight’ and ‘twenty-six.’ In front of the building isTom’s bike, unlocked, as he’d described it. I suppose the airport is too far to travel for common thievery.
    Because of my perfect score on the Chamber of Commerce Test for New Island Employees, I know the airport averages about sixty-five flights a day in high season, all of the planes small twin engines and expensive. About three quarters of these flights are private, usually men flying in from Chicago or Cleveland. They radio their approximate arrival time to the one airport employee, requesting a taxi when they touch down. When I serve these men at the restaurant they look at their wristwatches.
Just flew in for the day
, they say over their shrimp cocktails and tumblers of Oban.
    I wonder sometimes at the luxury I am allowed to mingle with here, and if it will ever be mine.
    The rest of the flights are air taxis from the mainland. Rummy took one over the other night after he missed the last ferry, and he said the floor of the plane had rusted away in spots and was covered by wooden planks. A metal folding chair was set up in the back for him to sit on. He suspected the pilot might be drunk.
    â€˜The pretentious part of me wanted to make fun of it,’ he said. ‘But I was shitting my pants the whole time.’
    Twenty minutes later after a wind-buffeted landing, he resolved never to miss the last ferry ever again.
    I sit on my new mode of transport with pride, marveling that while I lost an expensive mountain bike, this vintage model is like something from an old French movie where girls in long black skirts and red lipstick ride about through cobble-stoned streets, and there’s even a basket. The wide seat is made of cracked white canvas, the silver fenders brown with rust. It also has a kickstand. Navy blue with solid metal bars, this bike looks like it will last forever.
    I get lost trying to ride back, but taking the trails that run downhill I eventually reach the lake. Emerging from the trees about five minutes from town, I ride casually over to the Tippecanoe to look at Bryce through the window. It’s not too busy and he notices my bike, giving the thumbs up. After looking over his shoulder for Velvet, he points to his crotch, then taps his watch.
    We will meet at the Cock when he’s done work. Nodding to show him I understand, he smiles then continues the complicated napkin fold for the swan at table eleven. I begin the ride back uphill to Tippecanoe housing, wishing my new bike had more than one gear.
    I shower, shave, and lotion, debating my choice of underwear, finally deciding on a pink lacy thong. I’ve just discovered that bike seats and no underwear are not a pleasant combination.
    I also think it is better to be naked in stages.
    Brushing my teeth twice, I make sure to get the back of my tongue and the spaces between my gums and wisdom teeth. A drop of concealer covers the mole by my eyebrow that is slightly too dark.
    At ten I leave my apartment door unlocked and ride into town, my hair straight and long in