Sunday Morning

The spare helmet was squishing my head and folding my ears closed on themselves. You’d offered me a ride home and as we shot down Main Street I could feel my added weight testing the small motorcycle’s suspension.

At breakfast we’d talked art, bad roommates, what friends Tinder had told us we had in common, theorized what childhood issues had led to our server to being so rude and how relieving it was to originally plan to meet each other through the app in order to sleep together and then go for breakfast instead.

As we bounced back over the bumpy tarmac I realized that this was what I had needed. Human interaction. Thoughtful conversation. Sure, the prospect of some sort of intimacy was nice, but after months of having none it was more than enough to just see your eyes wrinkle behind your glasses as I told a particularly tasteless joke about the late Patrick Swayze.

Portrait by Alex Quicho for #POBEshow 2014