Shutterspeed by A. J. Betts

She’s keen to go; he knows it. He leaves first, pre-empting her next move.
    Across the road from BikeMania, Dustin watches a couple of salesmen knock back cans of Solo. There are new bikes inside under fluorescent lights and another dozen second-hand onesoutside. He’s been here before to buy magazines and pick up brochures. The store’s not particularly good, and he wonders what would bring Terri Pavish here.
    She arrives by foot and the salesmen greet her with a vague familiarity. Under a fluoro, she pulls a newspaper ad from her bag and asks questions. From Dustin’s position on the street, he can see their expressions but only guess what they’re saying. The men walk her to a bike close to the door and she runs her hand along the seat of a yellow Ducati like it’s an old friend. She asks more questions and the men look at each other before answering.
    The younger guy points to a used Suzuki GSX-R750 out the front but she shakes her head, her attention coming back to the Ducati. It’s a beautiful machine: a Supersport 750, sleek, sharp nose, narrow frame and lightweight V-twin engine.
    Terri Pavish swings her right leg over the leather seat. She runs her palms along the smooth dash and lets her feet find the foot pegs. She straightens her back and grins. Dustin takes her photo. He takes three more.
    The three of them walk the bike to the entrance, not far from where Dustin stands in the darkness. He can hear them now, as a salesman tells her she can try it until closing, and that’s all the instruction she needs. In the time Terri Pavishtakes to buckle up her helmet, rev the throttle and take off, Dustin is able to take another five photos in quick succession. A salesman watches the back of her disappear and Dustin grins, knowing how he feels.
    She’s uncatchable now. That machine was built for speed, able to get to 257kph if she’ll let it. She’ll probably be in Rockingham in fifteen minutes, or testing corners at Woodman Point. Rather than wait outside the shop for an hour, he fastens his own helmet and begins the cycle north, to her house. He’s in no rush.
10
    He pedals casually on the bike path over the Fremantle traffic bridge. Halfway along, soft voices below lure him to the edge. He leans the bike against the railings and bends over. In the darkness below, two kids sit on a concrete landing which juts out from the bridge’s support. They fish with handlines. Apart from them, the river is empty.
    Somewhere around here is where the Swan River meets the Indian Ocean. It’s hard to know where one ends and the other begins. It probably doesn’t matter; it’s all saltwater and fish; tides and rips. Ten metres below, the water slops andmurmurs, speaking its own language. There’s a fine line, he thinks, between fear and desire. People are only afraid of heights because they know they could be tempted to jump.
    Behind him, a freight truck rumbles the bridge’s foundations. It’s followed by a motorbike and he knows it’s her without turning around. A Ducati — a 90-degree fuel-injected V-twin — has a commanding sound, more of a roar than a purr. What’s she doing here?
    He watches the tail-light head north, expecting her to speed it up Curtin Avenue for a decent run. But suddenly she brakes fifty metres ahead, indicating right at the Tydeman Road traffic lights. She’s going to North Freo. There are no other vehicles, just Terri Pavish with her red helmet and the borrowed yellow Ducati. Her indicator winks at him. This isn’t what he’d expected.
    The light changes to green. She revs, then takes the turn, and Dustin feels himself get sucked into her slipstream. He pushes off after the Ducati, unable and unwilling to alter the course she sets for him. He’s one-tracked, tracing each of her turns. He’s got to be near her to feel something. Does she know this?
    He’s on his bike but even so he can’t lose