Their bikes lay in the grass. They lay next to them on cheap bamboo mats. It’s warm and sunny but they both wear long-sleeved shirts and pants. They have all the time in the world. Now that the kids have left home. The way their arms and legs are splayed across each other hints at the remnants of long lost intimacy. Maybe this is their first day of trying again. They lay still, not speaking. After so many years, words are no longer necessary. Or maybe there are no new ones. Her head on his chest and he’s thinking about going fishing this weekend. And she of dinner. His hand absently rubs her stomach. His hair is gray while hers is that red wine colour that all moms have. That was enough. Back on their bikes they go.