Sadly, it began with the end.

Most do.

Occasionally of course, you get the ones that begin about a third of the way through. But the smell of cheap cologne always ruins them.

The end was messy, as ends are wont to be. There were too many people watching, and not enough caring.

Oil glazed the motorbike helmet, making it look like a shiny hot cross bun that’d had all the raisins picked out by a raisin hater. And then been burnt.

A shattered headlight lay in the gutter, twisted metal kissing shards of glass.

A toddler screamed in delight as the back tyre broke free, bouncing down the road, skittering through fallen leaves, headed toward the distant rain clouds. Tires are happiest when they’re wet.

The other tyre lay still, still anchored to the bikes body, mourning its twin. It knew it would never feel the sweet skid of a slippery corner again, never charge through a puddle and watch the water fan out behind it in a rough display of giddy power.

She stood staring at the mangled remains of her Yamaha. Once shiny crimson, now a bruised and empty shell.

A tear ran unnoticed down her face, dancing down to the left to caress her cheekbone.

And still the tyre rolled on. Alone. Half of what it should have been. But free.