“I was a cyclist like you,” said the woman to the gypsy cyclist, the palms of her weathered hands raised upward, as if to hold a great bowl. “But rather a different kind. I cycled between austerity and promiscuity; between joy and loneliness; between passivity and exuberance. In my youth, I even prided myself that I could oscillate, like the wheels on your bicycle, between all the shades of passion and silence, propelling me to some mysterious location.
“So look where I am!” The woman laughed. She waved her hands around to a thatched hut and some garments strung on a line. “What do I know now, but that I have two dogs named Gilgamesh and Enkidu? That I wait under the blue sky and the heat of the day for strangers like you to ask them what they see? Look at what I have. There are no mirrors here. The last stranger I spoke to came here a very long time ago. You, on your bicycle, what do you see?”
The gypsy cyclist regarded the woman, feeling that it was perhaps impolite to inspect the entirety of her body. But what will she care that I look her up and down like I might a woman of physical beauty? She has invited me so.
“Ah,” she said, surprising him. “You needn’t look at my sagging breasts! That much I can see or cup them in my hands if need be. Except for the tip of my nose, it is my face I cannot see.” As she spoke, two thin but spritely, brown, short-haired dogs trundled to her side. “Come Gilgy and Enkidu! Come!” she said. “You see, I have nearly come to believe I am a dog, for these are the only faces I see. I think Gilgy sometimes thinks he is human, and that only Enky thinks that she is a dog. Alright, cyclist man, I will let you go when you tell me what you see!”
The gypsy cyclist looked again. Momentarily she seemed to fade and reappear. “I am not sure,” he replied. “These last few days of riding I have encountered others, but they all have looked like me. My dear woman, you are right. The wheels of my bicycle take me to mysterious places. Believe me that if you wish to know what I see, take close account of my face. Then you will know what I see.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and she began to laugh. “Go then on your way, cyclist man! Keep your wheels turning until one day you will stop, like me, and who you are will scatter like particles within everything you see. Then you will be home, wherever you are; you are half way there. Fare well, cyclist man. You will find it soon enough.”
The gypsy cyclist looked once more into the woman’s eyes and, turning his handlebars slightly to the left, pushed his pedal down.

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