From the Covers series
I know the potholes on this block like I know the piles of magazines in my living room and I slalom around them with the same practiced grace I navigate my own neglected pylons with and uttering the same silent admonition that "someone" should make the way more safe for my traveling.
You stood on the corner when you had the light, when I was a block and a half away—my eyesight is that good; I watch that well. When I was three-quarters of a block from you the green turned mine and when I was ten yards out you stepped into the street; not once had you looked my way, so you did not see my face go pale as I swerved left and shifted up, to beat it to beat you to the center line, but you smiled when I was nearly upon you and you stepped back and spoke the "Hey" of one who has been awakened from a sleep, one now looking around and liking what he is seeing and forgetting what had captured his eyes just a moment ago.
I hit one of the holes and a spoke went pang! and you said "Hot dang!" and in spite of myself I grinned and allowed, for that moment, that my face might be red not because I had pedaled so hard and that sound might have been not a spoke but a string; I, not the bike, was sprung.