You answer the phone.

You pull out the little smart phone to try to take your mind off of the creepy guy staring at you. Looking through the address book you see whoever this Amber girl was, or is or whatever, she seems to have a family and friends. “I should call someone and tell them what happened to me I suppose.” You say quietly and punch the button that calls up the number pad. Two numbers in on your best friend you can't seem to remember the numbers, in fact another set comes to mind that when you start typing it the phone recognizes the number and suggests the name that called you before, Cindy. You clear the number and switch to family, again the numbers escape you and the number on the phone for mom starts to click in. “What the hell?” You don't know any of these people, why are there numbers invading your thoughts. Then suddenly the phone rings again, it is Cindy.

You stare at it for a second afraid to answer, then you click the little green button and say, “Hello.”

“Hey slut, did you find your perfect costume for the concert tonight? We are going to be late if you don't get your pretty little ass here soon.”

“Which concert again? Isn't it tomorrow?” You ask not sure if you want to hear the answer.

“What the hell do you mean, the concert, you know the costume party concert tour. God it took me all my summer job money to get us tickets, you aren't flaking out on me now are you?”

“No I'm not. I just, I don't know I thought the concert was Halloween.”

“Well sure if we want to drive down into the states. What are you mental? I am sure there was a show last night too. But ya stupid bitch, if we are going to the show in Toronto, you know the city we are in, then we go tonight, hell it starts in an hour are you ready or not?”

“I have the costume, slutty schoolgirl. You will love it.”

“Sounds nasty. Cool. So are you coming here to ride with me or are you just going to take that bike of yours?” She asks.

You have no idea where you parked, where she lives, or even how to find your home if you wanted to. But for whatever reason you just say, “I'll be there in 10 minutes, I am still at the mall, I just wanted a slice so I don't get drunk so fast tonight.” The words seemed to flow right out by themselves. With that she says her goodbye and a few more things that you don't really listen to, then after she calls you a slut one more time you finish with, “See ya bitch.” and hang up the phone.

You deposit the remains of your little meal into the trash and head for the door, still not really sure how you expect to make it anywhere. Out of the corner of your eye you see the creepy dude stand up and start walking slowly toward the door as well. “Eew.” You say and once again can't believe yourself. Walking across the parking lot you zip up your coat against the cool October air as you stroll through the rows of cars looking for something to be familiar. Two rows and many cars down the line you spot a motorcycle that seems to call to you. It seems oddly familiar yet you aren't even sure of the model as you first spot it, but as you get closer you aren't sure exactly how you know what you know, but it is a 1990 Harley 883. The frame is black with a distressed black leather single person tractor style seat. Behind the seat on the fender is a little grill like little rack to strap luggage to, that you are sure you use to tie down your bag. Other than that the bike is a very stripped down style with the rear fender stopping just beyond the rack with the little tail light sticking up, and no fender on the front wheel. A chain and padlock runs through the rear tire, but you make short work of it with a key on your ring that you pull from your purse with out even thinking. Next you slap your bag onto the rack you quickly pull out the helmet and gloves, then strap it down as if you had done this a million times using the chain, toss your leg over the low bike and stick in the key. A couple of flips and a push of a button and the machine is rumbling below you. As the machine warms you strap on the helmet and pull on the gloves, pulling down the visor before you put up the kick stand.

“So off to Cindy's house then?” You ask yourself not really having any kind of a clue how you can find her. You walk the bike out of the parking spot, then grip down the clutch. “Fuck it.” You say, flip it into first, and start rolling. Moments later you are pulling out of the parking lot and heading down the road. Deciding to just drive around, you spend the next ten minutes whipping down roads through the city till you spot a brick apartment building that looks rather old. Pulling up in front of it, you have no idea why you came here or what you might find inside. All the same, you find the urge to go inside. You unstrap your bag, lock the chain on the tire, and head inside, removing your helm and gloves once you are inside as you make your way up two flights of narrow stairs to the third floor. Pushing open the heavy door you make your way to apartment 212 and reach out your hand to rap on the door. “Open the door whore.” You call out as you knock. As soon as you say that, your mind races, looking around. “No way, how did I get here?”

The door opens.